DCI Sam Tyler's Road Traffic Collision
by Philip Glenister tomboy
Summary: Takes place in 2006-2007: when DCI Tyler is placed in a road traffic collision by an ex copper out for revenge, Gene Hunt and their team must get justice for Sam Tyler, solving the case before he awakes from his coma. Will Gene manage to unpick the disturbing legacies of former CID members at Greater Manchester Police, Salford? And Sam gets well enough to be back at work?
1. Introduction Summary

**Summary: **When Detective Chief Inspector Sam Tyler has a road traffic collision, it falls down to several of his Greater Manchester Police colleagues to find out how the incident happened when he is still at St. James's hospital in a critical condition. PCSO Cartwright has problems of her own when an elderly former hard nosed Detective Chief Inspector claims he knew DCI Tyler during his policing days of the 70s when Gene and co were barely out of nappies. Could they also be dealing with a ex Greater Manchester Police man who could have possible dementia? Some casefic in here, too, with Gene quietly solving colleague Sam Tyler's road traffic collision because it's the right thing to do and explains the scenes you didn't see in the series.

Gene seemed to fit into the 2006 world better as he grew up in the 70s-80s when police officers were very corrupt, has zero tolerance for corruption on the force and this retired Detective Chief Inspector from the 1970s causes stress within the modern day CID unit, especially when getting picked on by the now elderly ex policeman - his uncle Gerry for having homosexual tendencies. He is revealed to be the suspect in DCI Sam Tyler's road traffic collision but it takes intensive questioning of his former colleagues who used to work with him back in the day.

Gene actively deciding to change himself into that, going through that whole process of turning himself into something like the cop he's always wanted to be since starting at Greater Manchester Police from 1983 without anyone pushing him to it.

**Set in 2006-2007 with deleted scenes from episode 1.01 and 2.08**


	2. Prologue Part I

Prologue Part I

DCI Tyler sent a PCSO on duty, it seems to confirm DS Gene Hunt's worst nightmares, PCSO Chris Skelton kept looking troubled when he was asked to be dealing with a road rager suspect who is suspected to have caused their boss's road traffic collision and DCI Sam Tyler gets significantly injured during the heated pursuit.

The road rager punches DCI Sam Tyler _"It's a simple enough question, DCI Tyler!"_ the suspect punches him again, Sam stumbles backwards but the reprieve is short lived. Gene unfortunately is on a Traffic assignment; Sam is grabbed and pushes him face first against the blue Vauxhall Cavalier, arms twisted on the back.

Finally Sam starts to struggle back, but it's too late. It was just the same when his friend Gene Hunt used to have to work with awful DCIs, back when he was first starting out in the Eighties.

_"It matters if it's whiter than white Sam Tyler with your big tall mate of a rozzer me nephew Eugene Hunt who's named after a glam rocker's stupid song from the Seventies!" _The suspect yells punctuating each of the last few words with another shove and twist of DCI Sam Tyler's arms, until he chokes into a scream.

_"That's ex DCI Hunt!" _Gene's nasty uncle hisses putting more pressure on Sam Tyler's arms and back with every word. Sam, you're too late. The former Detective Chief Inspector revealed to be the road rager and related to Gene Hunt can't see past the red mist much anymore.

Gene's nasty uncle doesn't let DCI Tyler finish, kneeing him dangerously in the gut instead.

_"A set up, eh? And you're a bloody naive little tit, is that it?!" _his knuckles starting to dig into Tyler's throat, but the retired former Detective Chief Inspector doesn't care.

The next moment, a sharp stab of pain shoots up from Gerry's leg, and he cries out with pain and surprise stumbling backwards and crashing down to one knee.

Sam kicked the old DCI. Tyler actually kicked a former bent police officer. He's standing above Gerry now, breathing heavily holding his side in a protective way.

"For God's sake when Gene and I were children; you were involved in anything with false evidence, sloppy statements with an obvious motive and it's all textbook!"

Gene stares up at his former ex police uncle from inside the traffic car making DCI Sam Tyler's blood boil "If you accepted that you were retired. If you'd investigated all these now cold cases just a tiny bit more throughly, you would have seen it was all circumstancial, vital and important; but no you ran Greater Manchester Police poorly." Gene Hunt and Sam Tyler never liked their predecessors way of policing as things like this went against everything the boys believed in since they were children in the 1970s-1980s era. Being this much larger Gene bravely defends his childhood friend and colleague from being cut off, deflecting the now elderly man "But no, you had to do it your way, act like a bloody cowboy all high and mighty without so much as one glance at the statements, threatening people in interrogation!" as Gene's nasty ex copper uncle is a suspect to DCI Sam Tyler's road traffic collision.

Unfortunately even with Gene Hunt's legendary status as a police officer to defend Sam, DCI Tyler is thrown off balance in no time and is on the ground, the old former policeman on top; he hits him, face, chest, arm; then pins Tyler's wrists down and punches.

So Gerry Hunt stomps on Sam Tyler's side finally drawing a pained scream from the young DCI.

The suspect is shouting; his voice sharp and uncontrolled sending wild swirls through the red mist. A kick. Old cream loafer shoes, the tip buried in DCI Tyler's side, midriff and finally against the head.

Gene blinks back at the incident scene, he slips his Nokia out immediately calling for an ambulance to pick up DCI Tyler.

"999, how can I help you Detective Sargeant Gene Hunt?" asked the lady operator typing the details for the ambulance team dispatchers to be informed of a road rage traffic incident on the Manchurian Way motorway. Gene knows his old friend needs to be taken to Accident & Emergency straight away. There's one Sam Tyler and he's covered in blood. Sam is coughing up blood. Gene's view of the crime scene is obscured, but does his best to relay the incident as much as he can. PCSO Liz Cartwright is adminstrating first aid on the scene - kneeling down next to DCI Tyler trying to turn him on his back, but Gene's childhood mate cries out in pain even though the PCSOs had barely touched him. Sam curls up afraid of the old school coppers.

"DCI Sam Tyler was driving after an ex Greater Manchester Police CID officer who just so happens to be related to me, the pursuit went pear shaped as he had seven bells knocked out of him." Gene swallows his tears, so the operator could clearly hear his description of the injuries sustained.

"DCI Tyler's symptoms are: coughing up blood, black blue bruises, twisted but sprained broken wrists, cracked bones and I think he has a nasty large red mark on his back and in several areas." said DS Gene Hunt who was multitasking the ambulance call out and holding Sam's hand tightly but gently with PCSOs doing first aid on the scene until paramedics arrive.

"OK, DS Hunt; where would you like the ambulance to be dispatched to?" asked the 999 call handler who wanted details of the scene of the emergency immediately.

"Manchurian Way motorway; it's the shape of a spaghetti junction in Central Manchester by the traffic lights underneath the bridge and you will see a blue Vauxhall Cavalier, registration E599 SRJ in GL spec with a tatty roof rack. That's where my injured DCI colleague is." with a few formalities he waits for further instructions. As there isn't anything else that needs doing on the other line of the phone, the kindly lady finishes the 999 telephone call.

"Just hang on in there with your PCSOs until paramedics can collect your DCI Tyler to St. James NHS hospital." she replied cheerfully to DS Gene Hunt who then says thank you. It was since his Police Cadet days that he got to understand of the need to focus in serious emergencies.

It went even quieter as the paramedics, Gene and the uniform PCSO voices sounded muffled to Sam Tyler's ears as he slips into unconciousness "Boss, talk to me DCI Tyler!" inaudible when the paramedics put him on to the stretcher and transfer safely to the waiting ambulance closing the doors. Gene witnesses DCI Tyler breathing raspy and irregular, blood dripping down his chin as he coughs, eyes rolling in the back of his head as he slips into a coma. Gene was fearful he may have had an epileptic fit brought on through the injuries that his nasty bastard of a uncle since he was a DCI once a upon a time caused and did such a callous thing to his colleague.

Ex DCI Hunt turns around walking away from the crime scene leaving bloody tracks in his wake, no empathy that his nephew's esteemed friend and colleague had been injured without a single word. How could the ex copper walk away as if nothing happened? It was time for Gene Hunt to get justice for DCI Tyler.

PCSO Chris Skelton was looking sick and vomited in reaction to the incident; Gene had to get a biohazard bag and bowl for Chris to finish his throwing up into, Gene relaxes him by holding Chris inbetween his knees with the bowl held "Just take a deep breath son, try not to be sick on my trousers please." said Gene as PCSO Chris Skelton is getting over his shock of such a bloody incident. Liz Cartwright was pale as a ghost and hands clasped over her mouth.

Gene accompanies the medics sitting in the big flourescent van with DCI Tyler wondering how did this happen? He watches Tyler stone faced to the world as the doctors and nurses rush his esteemed colleague into the Accident & Emergency wing of St. James NHS hospital to be placed , into the ward.

DCI Tyler survived. Due to the 1984 and 1998 Data Protection Act regulations this much the doctors and nurses can tell Gene. He is in a coma, there is no definite date given as to when DCI Tyler will wake up; but the psychologists are confident it'll happen in a week. Detective Sargeant Gene Hunt doesn't even nod. He instead warns the on-site doctors and nurses that should an elderly ex copper with a nasty grudge show up at the hospital, under no circumstances is he to be allowed through to visit DCI Tyler "Don't you dare reveal confidential details and don't tell my former ex copper evil uncle which room Sammy's in."

Standing by DCI Tyler's bed with machines beeping away, looking down at his body wearing an oxygen mask and hospital gown. Much of his body is obscured by the hospital blanket, Tyler's head is bandaged heavily, both eyes shut into a medically induced sleep. However the surgeons managed to clean Sam up so now the bruises stand out like neon signs on his now pale skin.

Gene knows he must get justice for DCI Sam Tyler and wants to keep his promises, but feels scared to leave his colleague alone in the A&E hospital ward. There was a good reason why Tyler had to pursue his ex police uncle.

Finally, Gene sits down in the chair feeling a sense of duty that's keeping him there playing Grand Theft Auto on his Gameboy Advance unit and watch over DCI Tyler for over the next few hours until the ward manager pops by explaining visiting hours would be finishing for the day.

CID is very quiet and subdued within the PC terminals, DCI Sam Tyler won't be able to turn up for work due to the nature of the injuries he received in the road rage traffic collision.

Gene had anticipated it, so he isn't really surprised, but it hurts all the same. He dodges any e-mails, phonecalls and questions about DCI Tyler's current state of health; telling everyone that, no DCI Tyler can't have visitors yet.

When Liz Cartwright catches DS Gene Hunt getting changed into some protective police clothing in the locker room alone, they talk for a few minutes. The aspiring PCSO is a lot more collected than yesterday, he notices with respect for a fellow colleague. Cartwright doesn't even shed a cry, not even sniffling. "You can go visit DCI Tyler at St. James's if you feel up for it, but not to expect too much from the boss." he says, she nods falling silent for a moment.

"Gene ...how did this happen?" Gene can't explain it either, not to himself, and even less to others.

Hunt stays at the station all day doing the ordinary drudgery, and only in the late afternoon does he realize that it's because he's waiting for the Boss. The Jamaican Railway Arms landlord asks "is DCI Tyler alright?" Gene says no and puts down his finished lager.

Somehow at the end of his shift after signing out, Gene finds himself back at the boss's hospital room.

"I'll be out there making a difference and finding the ex copper scum who did this to you, Sammy..." Tyler doesn't reply. Doesn't even twitch. "My uncle would just attack one of 'is own."

Sam's lower left arm and hand are in a cast – crushed bones there or some-such. His skin seems to consist only of bandages, surgery patch ups and plasters now.

"... how did this 'appen, Boss?" asked Detective Sergeant Gene Hunt desperate to know what's happened, it's the first time he hasn't had DCI Sam Tyler talking and seemed weird in their years of friendship.

No answer.

An hour later, Cartwright shows up. She's brought a few flowers, chocolate bars and grapes. They don't talk, but after a while they share the grapes. Tyler shares their silence.

When they both leave, because visiting hours are over, Gene thinks they have to do something.

But what would that exactly be? Gene doesn't know where to start from.


	3. Prologue Part II

Prologue Part II

"Maya, where's the former Guv?" This is the second day after the incident. No one has seen the former Guv since, who is Gene's nasty ex copper of an uncle, now presumably elderly.

"I dunno." Ray looks up from the magazine he has been reading, seeing that DC Maya Roy is ready to pounce "Have you tried contacting Gene's uncle? At home?"

"No." He's been contemplating it, yes, but something has kept him from driving round his former Guv's house. He doesn't know how Tyler and Hunt do it, paying calls to his retired colleague frequently enough, but he himself... No, Ray Carling can't bring himself to pay a visit to his old Guv, especially not now.

PCSO Cartwright straightens up, frowning. "But... we need to do something."

"Not our problem, send it to the Cold Case Unit" Ray mutters, glancing down at his magazine again. "Guv's his own man, isn't he."

"What? How... how can you say that? Ray," said Liz shocked by her own outrage "He's supposed to be here awaiting Custody!"

"We can't just let Gene's uncle run from responsibility like that, even though he used to work here! We found out the whole thing was a ruse after SOCO e-mailed us, he needs to know, and he needs to face what he did to S-" Suddenly, she breaks off, as though she's just choked on something, and looks away. The whole department including Gene is looking at her now.

"If Gerry Hunt doesn't show up for Custody by tomorrow, send ex DS Phyllis Dobbs to his house. That might bring him round to his senses." Everyone gets back to their desktop computers and PCSO Liz Cartwright walks back to the Police Community Support Officers department without saying another word.

Lunch break. Gene walks through the entrance of the St. James's hospital, up to reception.

"Anyone been to visit DCI Tyler, luv?" asked Gene wearing his beloved leather jacket, a casual but smart light green collared shirt and jeans adorned with black Doc Martens. The receptionist was scrolling through the computer records of visitors to the hospital. "Uhm... bloke with dark hair styled into a mullet, kinda nervous... Turned up pretty early."

_Ah. So that's why Chris was late this morning, the cheeky div._ thought DS Gene Hunt though he secretly admired the young PCSO checking on their boss before the dawn shift at Greater Manchester Police's main Stopford House, Salford.

"Anyone else? Big bloke, grey 'air, camel 'air coat...? Looks like me old man?" Gene wondered to himself. The receptionist thinks for a moment, brow creased, before shaking her head. "No.. don't think so. I didn't see no-one, at least." finding there was no computer records under visitors for a former DCI who obviously spent a number of decades running around Manchester.

Gene Hunt nods his thanks and makes his way to Tyler's room, already knowing the way by heart.

He opens the door gingerly – not so much as to disturb Tyler, but rather because he doesn't want to stay, should the bloke have woken up. However, the Boss is still out cold, and so Gene was made Acting DCI in lieu of the significant incident.

DCI Tyler's breathing is shallow all of a sudden, loud, irregular, and oh God he's backing away, panic standing clear as day in his face, but he's moving too much, he'll pull out the IV tube and he's trying to say something but that hurts him somehow and he seizes up, eyes scrunched shut against the pain, mouth open, gasping..

After they've sedated Tyler again – doesn't look like he managed to hurt himself seriously, thankfully – Gene drives right back to the station, feeling decidedly sick. This situation is too messed up, he can't deal with it himself.

And for the first time, Gene's angry. Angry with his uncle Hunt. Angry with him because he is hiding, and leaving Ray and the others to deal with this, his bloody mess. Angry with Sam sodding Tyler, for doing or saying whatever through no fault of his own, that made Ray's Guv lose control. Angry with PCSO Cartwright, because she was right all along and they should have called the retired Guv into Custody immediately and made him bear the consequences.


	4. Prologue Part III

Prologue Part III

Only once she's at the very doorstep does Liz question whether what she's about to do really is the right thing. But then her finger is on the bell button, and she presses down and hears the ring. She closes her eyes for a moment, collecting herself.

When Gene came back to the station, he looked shaken. He told her briefly what had happened. She didn't wait for him to finish his tale, already rushing out of the office.

Her first stop was at the hospital, to make sure Sam was alright. Sure enough, they had sedated him again, giving the reason of "risk of unintentional self-harm". He didn't wake up during the hour Liz spent sitting by his bed, feeling like crying and screaming and throwing up and holding him forever and ever.

Gene is sure, whatever Sam has said, or done, he did not deserve what the retired Guv, gave him in return; just for doing a simple pull over and stop manouver when he finally stopped the blue 1988 Vauxhall Cavalier on suspicion of no insurance and failing to stop when requested.

The Gene Genie noted a car with vinyl roof trim is sitting in the driveway of his house, so he sees that Ray's old Guv hasn't left the city either; possibly the Cavalier was decoyed with his even older Mk3 Cortina, with a vintage of three to ten years older from years 1973-1977. Cartwright realizes that it has been a minute since she rang the bell, and no-one has come to answer the door.

She rings again, more insistently this time.

The sight of Sam, in that hospital bed... she couldn't stand it. Sure, it's happened before, because Sam can occasionally get himself into trouble without even thinking about it once, but this, this is different. Someone formerly from his own team put him there, someone who used to work for them years ago.

But then, after just a bit of proper prodding, the case had fallen apart, just like that – just like Gene had said it would. It had all been staged. Liz had been tasked with dealing with the paperwork and admin for a different case at the time of the discovery, so Ray had been the one rushing to the scene of DCI Tyler's horrific accident.

Still no answer. Liz rings once more, several short rings and three long ones. She knows the retired Guv must be home. Leaving bloody shoe prints in his wake.

She'll never forget the sight of Sam, on that stretcher. Covered in blood, struggling to breathe. For one moment, before she saw his chest rise with a shudder, she even thought he was dead. That huge gash to the side of his head. The blanket covering him already sodden with blood on the roadside, while they did first aid and Gene summoning the paramedics by calling 999.

Someone other than Chris (who had been too startled by Ray's yelled instructions to react); Gene was phoning for an ambulance, even knowing a little about what exactly had happened, but calling them to come here quick as they can anyway, with others giving first aid at the scene.

And still, no movement in the house. Enough is enough, it's just like the thousands of raids they ran on drug dealers and users in the city.

PCSO Liz Cartwright bangs her fist against the black painted door.

"Mr. Hunt, It's PCSO Cartwright!" She's starting to think she was wrong to come here after all.

"I know you're home! Open the door, please!" One moment to catch her breath. "Sir!"

Slowly, not quite believing it wasn't locked, Liz opens the door, peering inside. The hallway is dark, empty. No sound is to be heard. However, there is a... smell. Just a faint whiff, a certain stale quality to the air, like it hasn't been stirred in a while. Liz's heart is starting to beat hard as she steps into the house, straining her ears for any indication of there being someone else apart from her.

There is no reply. However, Liz has been in the force for a while now, and she has been part of Gene's team for long enough to have learned to listen to her gut feeling. And her gut is telling her to search the house thoroughly. _Don't leave without having had a look around_. So Liz battles down her anxiety, closes the door behind her, and switches on the light.


	5. Prologue Part IV

Prologue Part VI

It reveals that the house can't be abandoned, at least not for long. The retired Guv's coat is lying on the floor in a crumpled heap, for one. There is no dust, or at least not as much as there could be. Scraping together all her courage, Liz glances first into the living room, then into the kitchen. The former is empty except for a bottle of single malt and a dated tumbler on a small table – both drained to the last drop. The kitchen contains little more, a couple of bottles on the floor. So, upstairs it is.

The first thing she sees as soon as she's up high enough on the stairs, is another empty bottle. Beer, this time. Another step, and she spots another bottle. Speeding up slightly, Liz finally reaches the landing.

The hallway is practically littered with bottles – beer and whisky, mostly. And-

Legs, sticking out from a doorway that must lead to the avocado coloured bathroom.

Liz rushes forward, because those are Ray's Guv's loafers –- oh God, the blood is still on them –- that's him lying there as though he's dead. PCSO Cartwright is on her knees next to his prone form within a heartbeat, trying to turn him on his back. There's no vomit on the floor, so at least he can't have passed out from that and choked on it... But Christ, he's heavy for an old man!

Finally, she's managed to turn the retired Guv over, and she reaches out to search for a pulse- there it is. Thank God. And he's breathing too, a cloud of alcoholic stench wafting around him every time his chest falls, which thankfully happens at regular intervals. There's no blood, no cuts, nothing to indicate he injured himself. Liz sits back, exhaling audibly. Jeez... He must be sleeping off the booze...

Liz's gaze roams settling on the trail of bottles in the hallway. Her initial relief starts to fade away as she puts the pieces together. He's been here, all that time, since the incident. Doing nothing but...

"Four o'clock in the afternoon." Liz realizes she's snapping tapping her digital watch, but strangely, it doesn't bother her one bit. He gave her a bloody scare there, he deserves some snapping, for this and everything else!

There is another rumble, a groan, and Liz realizes she whole-heartedly wishes for the now retired Guv to have the headache of his life. That's the least he deserves, really. Her frustration bubbling over, she adds with snide in her voice, "That's the afternoon two days after what happened with DCI Tyler, by the way, sir!"

Guvs should be reliable, looking out for their team. He isn't supposed to put other officers in a coma, and then refuse to deal with the consequences and drown whatever he has been drowning in alcohol.

Meanwhile with DCI Gerry Hunt processed through to Custody in handcuffs from the Ford Transit arrest van, escorted by two uniformed officers and Liz takes him through to Interview Room 5 to begin a recorded interview. Gene and Liz say their ranks into the cassette recorder, the time and suspect present.

"Don't you want to know how DCI Tyler is doing?" the dedicated female PCSO asks in anger. "He's alive. But it was a close call. Really close." Liz has to fight hard to retain control over her voice. " 'e was in a coma, woke up just a couple of hours ago. Do you want to know what the doctors told me? About his injuries?" She pauses for a moment, before shaking her head. "I suppose you don't, but you know what, Guv? I don't care! Because you need to know, because it was you who did this to him!" remembering her mother used to work for him in the 70s and 80s.

At this point Gene is beyond caring about the criminals that poison Manchester "First of all, fractured skull – that alone could've cost 'is life, and 'e's damn lucky it didn't. Next, a couple of broken and cracked ribs, but that's par for the course, right? Shattered bones in his right 'and, you outdid yourself there if I may say so. Severe bruising all over his upper body, some internal bleeding. Oh, and severe bruising on his legs, 'e'll 'ave to use crutches for a while. Or, well, a cane, because obviously 'e can't use 'is right 'and!" DS Gene Hunt yelled fuming with the whole debacle "But, 'e's alive. 'e'll recover, physically at least. Mentally, who's to say? This could have caused epilepsy to fuck Sammy's brain up, uncle Gerry!" Gene is refusing to use his uncle's former title of days gone by.

"Right. Stay 'ere. You can stay 'ere forever, for all I care. If you don't come into Custody for an interview tomorrow, I'm... no, we are reporting you to the Super." Now her voice is shaking too, shaking with hurt and anger and sadness. Gene is silent, facing her on their side of the Formica table with those unsettling blue eyes of his. She still can't tell what he's thinking about in lieu of what his uncle did, but when she looks closely she thinks that his face has gone pale.

"We've been stressed sick! Sam in a coma, you refusing to stop after a hit and run, where does that leave us? What are we supposed to do? And 'ere you are, in yer own 'ouse, drowning yerself in booze." The tears are out too."Because where does it leave the rest of us? When first we have to see our own DCI in hospital, and then we can't even respect the old Guvs any more? Tell me, sir, where does it leave us?!"


	6. Prologue Part V

Prologue Part V:

Acting DCI Gene Hunt early in the morning, getting ready – showering, shaving - on the sounds of his favourite glam rock songs in his Apple I-Pod to go to work. He doesn't think he can stomach breakfast just yet. Although, credit where credit's due. Gene has to admit that Cartwright gave that fat old retired DCI a proper verbal slap. Gene ties the knot of his tie, for once not having a bad tie day and looking extra handsome. Quit whining, Hunt. You're a man, a legend. The brave Manc Lion.

The fact that his uncle utterly lost control. That he would have planned to hurt an active police officer. Tyler's desk and computer suite is tidy, as usual. Like he's been here this entire time, keeping it clean.

"... right you lot. You all know what 'appened, and I'm stepping back from my post for a while. Things need to be sorted, and it had better be sorted by someone who isn't related to the scum that is currently being held in Custody."

He allows several news reporters to ask questions, because questions require answers, and he wants to find DCI Sam Tyler the justice he deserves as Gene always thought of him as a little brother.

After dropping a written declaration on the Super's desk, Gene has signed out the station faster than he's ever did. He doesn't permit himself to think about what he's going to do next, because if he did, he might start talking himself out of it. So Gene drives wearing his seatbelt, drives fast, with care, until suddenly, he's parked in front of the hospital, staring at the grey Sixties made building.

Gene steps out of his Ford executive car and closes the door with a click striding to the entrance and making his way to the reception. This needs to be done. "I'll... 'ave to talk to my superior," the woman says at last. Gene can hear the insecurity in her voice, much as she tries to hide it.

"I'm looking for a DCI Sam Tyler." said Gene Hunt who is on compassionate leave. Now it's Gene who's frowning. "Since when do you do ID controls at a NHS 'ospital? I'm a colleague."

"Special security clearance orders. We can't let just anyone in without checking them against the visitor records on this PC. Your lad's been traumatised badly by a long retired DCI; heard of him?" _Wow they really protected the hospital grounds _he thought "Big bloke tall as you, grey hair and a faded camel hair coat?"

"Listen, love, I'm 'is mate, an' I just taken compassionate leave because his case affected my mental health and seeing a bent retired copper, related to me in the flesh, after so many years pissed me off." He's spent a fair share of his time in this hospital – and while it's annoying, it's undeniably part of the job. Being a copper isn't easy.

The people waiting in the lounge tell Gene that the tall old man in the camel hair coat left through the front entrance, got into his car and drove off. The nurse calls the police station, to report the incident. 20 minutes later, an officer shows up, conducting a thorough search of the hospital. They don't find the former DCI just yet.

Or so it plays out in Gene's head, at the end of the day, as he waits by a back entrance, Benson & Hedges cigarette in mouth, having parked the Mk3 Granada just a bit off. This train of thought won't get him anywhere, he needs to stop it right this instant. Concentrate, Hunt, concentrate. Remember what you came here for.

Gene has to pause for a moment, to gather strength. "If I stay and we still haven't solved the case of your RTC, you can be transferred. You get to choose a new station."


	7. Chapter 1

Chapter One

It came within inches of ending before it started.

Late one night in central Manchester, a tired, drunk, middle-aged man had found himself lying on his upstairs landing, on carpet that hadn't been vacuumed in the eight months since his wife had left, and looking up through the skylight at where there should have been stars, had the sky not been choked with street lights.

Millions of rocks, hurtling through space, through vast, meaningless space – the Universe, he thought idly, was a serious heck of a long way to fall - and he wondered why some immense, thoughtless asteroid didn't come down right there and then and wipe the whole damn mess clean away. After all, it nearly happened all the time - if you believed the papers - disaster diverting by merest thousands of miles, by inter-galactic inches.

What makes a pile of dust become a planet, gather an atmosphere, a slimy film of life, the concept of legs and eyes and finally someone clutching an empty bottle of Jack Daniels, too hot in a half-nylon blend shirt, staring blurry-eyed at eternity and seeing nothing?

Millions, billions of things that might happen, that could, that maybe should, that hadn't, that don't.

Half a millimetre – less – here or there, and everything is different. Except that it isn't, it all turns out exactly how it does.

But looking for reasons is what humans do, and those that are especially fond of it become police officers, only it turns out that - whether you've got the methodology of Sherlock Holmes or Scooby Doo - reasons seem to remain pretty much impossible to find.

Which is why we never know quite what's going to happen next, for all that this man, spinning at last out of the hold of consciousness through sheer weight of alcohol, had no hope of anything changing at all.

Detective Sergeant Gene Hunt woke up bleary-eyed and furry-tongued, still wearing most of his clothes, still sprawled on the landing floor, desperate for a piss, already fifteen minutes late for work, alarm-clock blaring from his bedroom like a siren hunting him down.

Not a normal weekday morning – he hadn't let things get that bad, though avoiding the reflection of the bathroom light in the shaving mirror was something he was slowly becoming skilled at.

He'd forgotten yet again to buy cereal or bread – over the last few years Rachel had taken to ordering groceries online. When she'd left, so had the computer and any ongoing awareness of the state of cupboards. The leftover bits of last night's takeaway – or was it the night before? – would give him biting heartburn by mid-morning but something had to soak up the last of the booze.

Since the garage near the Police Station sold instant coffee he never ran out of it, and with two cups down he felt the spark of life return to his aching head; Adam receiving the touch of God.

Were his reactions all they should have been, by the time he got to work and into uniform and finally into the patrol car?

There are some questions for which there is never any bloody hope of an answer, but we ask them anyway, because believing an answer exists is maybe the closest we can get to finding it. Gene would have ample opportunity to interrogate himself afterwards, but the way things turned out, luck or fate or the god that was caffeine was with him – or maybe he really had been fine, maybe his blithe judgement of himself as fit to drive had been correct.

That day, in a few hours time, a man called DCI Sam Tyler was going to be run down by a car, left lying in the middle of the road. When Gene drove past, minutes later, he didn't kill the man, didn't hit his head with the nearside wheel of his Audi, didn't end it once and for all, only almost, only nearly. We see that all this is happening on a small road underneath the Mancunian Way motorway. The music is playing on an iPod in the red Audi patrol car.

Only inches away.

That's the thing about it that he didn't tell anyone, not even those first heart-pounding moments after he'd found Tyler, radioing for an ambulance – no listen, he's just lying in the road, he's not opening his eyes, get them here now – he never mentioned that he almost hadn't seen him down there in the path of the wheels of his patrol car, that he'd been leaning down behind the dashboard to find another fag.

These days you aren't allowed to smoke in police cars. Gene does.

He hears the news zig-zag its way through the radio channels – officer down Lime Road... Tyler... Lime Road... DCI Tyler... found by an officer in Traffic... Sam Tyler... – and in the background some music coming out of Tyler's car.

David fucking Bowie, let's play a game shall we, inappropriate music to play over a wounded man, that might just about win.

One of the many, many reasons why Gene hates working in the Traffic Division is that the fatalities and injuries are just about the most mundane, predictable and depressing possible. After all, about the single most dangerous thing someone is likely to unwittingly do to themselves is get in a car.

So why the fuck shouldn't he be allowed to smoke in one?

You did get some guys with the rulebook actually honest-to-god memorised line by line, driven by an evangelical need to solve the problems of the world by enforcing the seatbelt laws and wearing day-glo orange tabards, and then there were the few who'd basically realised that with a little luck and connivance it could mean a cushy little number, sitting in a soft car seat.

And then of course, some guys had been put there.

Gene was put there, quite definitively. Consider yourself lucky to still have a job, consider yourself lucky to have rank, and Hunt, there are women in the Service remember – please don't call it the Force – so less of the 'guys', eh?

Funny, the kind of mental debris that floats about, something to cling to when you don't want to think about what's happening, don't want to see what's in front of you – the ambulance still isn't here, is it taking a fucking detour via Liverpool?

He's sitting on the ground by Tyler's head, and Tyler is breathing and has a pulse, and the blood isn't much and all from what looks like a shallow head wound. The coffee and the stale poppadoms in Gene's stomach are staging a rebellion and his skull aches as if he was the one that was bleeding onto the pavement and his tongue fucking canes where he bit it as he slammed the brakes on.

Distraction again – easier to look into himself than at Tyler, and that's saying something.

"Tyler," he says, near the man's ear. "Can you hear me? My name's Gene Hunt. DS Hunt out of Traffic, we were at the same frigging namby-pamby Tactical Driving Course last year, do you remember? Can you hear me? Can you squeeze my fingers? Tyler? Tyler, can you blink? Fuck."

He feels like an absolute idiot but when the paramedics do finally show up, they run through all the same stuff, only they talk much more loudly and with much less desperation. But then they don't have to keep thinking that they almost fucking cracked this man's skull like an egg because they couldn't wait five minutes for the next non-Health-and-Safety-approved Benson & Hedges.

"Did you see the vehicle involved in the collision?" Chief Inspector Young asks Gene at the roadside, within the circus ring of flashing lights and high-visibility jackets and scene-of-the-crime tape. "We're assuming it was car versus pedestrian, correct?"

"Paramedics found injuries consistent with that and Traffic reckons so - we're awaiting confirmation from forensics," some other Sergeant pipes up from behind his notebook. "I've arranged to get the CCTV reviewed."

"Why the hell was Tyler's Jeep stopped anyway? Why was he in the road?"

There are some questions in life that never get a satisfactory answer, but that doesn't stop anyone sodding well asking them.

"Please may I be added to the team on the case, sir?" This was also probably in that group of questions, but anyway Gene heard himself ask it.

"You want to...? Which case, DS Hunt?"

"Tyler's case, sir." Breathing deeply so as not to tell his Chief Inspector that he's a brainless idiot with more diplomas in applied computing than sense. The Chief is a tall, strong man run to fat, who seems to think wearing purple and pink striped silk shirts will make him look younger and who gels his hair to the point where it looks permanently wet – Gene tends to feel tired of him before he even starts speaking.

"The case of Tyler or the case Tyler was working on? Anyway, I can't see how that would be consistent with protocol." The Chief Inspector gives him one look, one clear up-and-down look with an expression like he can smell not just last night but every night's drink oozing from his pores.

But this isn't him – this wasn't him, at least.

Gene and the Chief were actually cadets together once, a mere 23 years ago, and the Chief ought to remember it, because back then he was the skinny kid who stammered and blushed when he was sent to ask a WPC to get coffee and Gene was the golden boy, the best damn officer on the force, the one who was going to go far, the one even the local underworld were starting to know the name of.

"I found him, sir, I..." He wants to say: I picked him up, he's mine like a bird fallen out of a tree, but it's not an emotion he understands in himself and it'll sound even more stupid vocalised.

What time is it? Way past lunchtime and he hasn't eaten since the poppadoms, maybe he needs something - he feels like he's floating.

"You should probably take the rest of this shift as emergency personal leave, Sergeant Hunt," someone says gently, pulling him aside. Apparently there's a form for that. When he started in the Police Force, when it was 'the Force', it was 1983 and if the day was disturbing you took everyone down the pub and bought a round and tasked whoever was newest with staying to answer the phone.

Mobiles now, they let anyone who wants you track you down anywhere. Gene's almost never rings.

"Why do people put flowers at the site of accidents?"

Gene, standing leaning back against his car, smoking, contemplates the area of tarmac where Tyler lay as it is now, two days after the event, clear of tape and technicians. One solitary bunch of roses is getting raindrops on its cellophane. There's no card.

Tyler had been on his side, just there, one arm outstretched – the position looked unsettlingly uncomfortable. His eyes had fallen open when Gene tried to shake him, sightless as a doll.

It's not like Gene really knows him – Gene's circled round this thought a lot the past forty-eight hours, along with the image of Tyler's sightless eyes and a starkly intense recollection of the smell of fabric softener in his suit jacket, though he can't remember registering it at the time. Gene does know where Tyler lives or how he likes his coffee or whether he supports City or United or what kind of no doubt inane and politically-correct hobbies he gets up to.

Before the Tactical Driving day, in fact, although he'd been inescapably aware of Tyler's existence he'd actually only occasionally seen him, usually passing in a corridor or as a photo in a Newsletter. And then after that stupid bloody course and all that happened on it, burning with anger and hoping for something poisonous, he'd asked some other officers about the man and been told only that the Department's youngest DCI had a reputation for getting personally involved in cases and forcing a lot of unpaid overtime on his team with a religious zeal. Just as Gene had been relishing this information, the officer had gone on to explain that since Tyler seemed to wind up nailing most of his cases apparently through sheer power of dedication, his slave-driving tendencies were only sporadically resented.

As with just about any senior figure, there were rumours about Tyler's private life, but honestly – the officer talking to Gene had said with a laugh – no one could figure out how he'd have the time.

"Wasn't that your job, Gene?" the officer – PC Timms, a man with the IQ of a shop-soiled lettuce - had said, afterwards, foolishly. "Tyler's, I mean. Wasn't that your job before..?"

Some kind colleague had shut him up with a well placed elbow to the ribs before Gene had had to tell him precisely what he thought of that question, and Gene had just about managed to get himself out of the canteen without breaking any objects or people.

If, at that moment, he'd run into Tyler again, he wouldn't have punched him square in the face, no question.

Now, Gene crushes a cigarette butt violently under his heel and thinks, Fuck it, just see that he's alive, see that he's nothing to do with you, and then stop bloody thinking about it.


	8. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"I could knock you down one hand behind my back!" he'd yelled at Tyler, during a session of 'Tactical Driving: Part Two' back in September 2005 when some idiot instructor, with a class of fourteen to work with, had, of all the police officers in all the world, paired the two of them up.

What really happened between them, that day?

Sometimes Gene isn't entirely as sure as he'd like to be, but it ended clear enough with him yelling and fire lighting in Tyler's eyes as he'd scrambled to get at Gene in return, until they'd had to be pulled apart like wankered Saturday night yobs in an all-night kebab shop.

"He's proper," was one of the things Timms had said to Gene, during that conversation afterwards. "Doesn't like roughhouse, does it by the book, no feelings, talks about 'negotiation' if you try and argue with him. So I don't know what the fuck happened, you must have really got under his skin."

When Gene gets to St James' Hospital on Saturday afternoon, he finds Tyler's been moved from the HDU where he was first taken to a side-room on a neurosurgical ward.

The Sister – or Ward Manager, as you're supposed to call them now - lets him in through the electronically locked entrance and escorts him down a long corridor of doors which is like something out of the bleeding X-Files, until eventually they reach the one with Tyler, Sam (Dr Lee, Nil By Mouth, Hourly Burette) written on the wipe-clean nameplate.

It smells strange in the room – enriched foam soap, Gene will learn later, from daily bed-baths, gentle on a bruised body getting yet more damaged just by doing nothing - and Tyler is very pale and still and small-looking, under a thin blue blanket, connected to various tubes like his body needs tethering to the earth not to just float away.

Any grasp Gene had on why he's bloody well driven all the way here disappears the instant he steps through the door – what the hell did he think was going to come of it? This skinny bloke who might barely remember Gene's name even before all this is in a fucking coma, and Gene is standing next to him still in his coat, rubbing alcohol gel into his hands until all the chapped skin round his cuticles stings.

He sits down facing away from the bed and texts Ray about some drinks next week – walking straight back past the nurse having only that instant arrived is, for some reason, more than he feels equal to.

Tyler keeps breathing, a small up and down movement of the blanket just out of the corner of Gene's eye.

He can't help noticing, and then - after he's left - remembering, that for some reason they've taped Tyler's eyelids shut. Gene assumes they'd know to remove them should he want to suddenly wake up, but the image makes his stomach turn over.

As he leaves, having timed fifteen minutes on his mobile for what felt like several days and played so many games of 'Snake' his eyes have crossed, he sees the nurse sitting at a wide desk reading a lurid, cheap-print magazine titled 'Real Stories' and absently eating a giant tin of Roses with a couple of colleagues, all neat hair and blue uniforms, attractive, most of them. Gene wonders absently if any of them ever dress up as nurses on nights out – the fake red-and-white-and-suspenders kind that are supposed for some reason to be sexy.

"Visiting's two till six weekdays," she calls out as he passes. He wonders who she thinks he is.

Gene Hunt was born in 1965 in Lichfield, youngest of three. His Dad moved them all to Manchester after his mother died, which happened when Gene was born so as far as Gene's concerned it's always been Manchester. Forget about his childhood – he tries to – he joined the Police as a teenager when it was still the Force and then something like life began.

There was a pretty and kind young woman working in a café where he took to stopping for lunch on his beat. She was called Rachel and he married her and bought a house with two spare bedrooms.

He would have been prepared to go to a specialist, undergo whatever necessary embarrassing tests, to find out why no children had come along. He'd told her so. A few weeks later he'd found her contraceptive pills in a box of old photos under the bed. Never, even when they were shouting at each other, did he feel he'd understood how she felt or what her reasons were.

Now Rachel lives in London and has an internet business selling customised embroidery patterns, she has two goldfish and apparently is learning Polish in evening classes. She calls very occasionally to remind him about how and when to pay the utility bills – polite, distant, hard to decipher – and sometimes it feels like more conversation than they ever had when they were married.

Whatever was wrong between them, Gene doesn't think more money or less frustration on his part would have changed any of it much, but he wonders sometimes what might have happened if he hadn't been assigned the Carruthers case - getting on for ten years ago now, god, where did the time go? - with the suspect who wouldn't say where he'd buried the body of a little girl, a rodent of a man who frankly wasn't worth shit and was clearly going to get beaten up by somebody sooner or later anyway, the lip he had on him. Gene had done worse before and got away with it, and on this occasion did at least keep his job – the powers that be understood, and it still wasn't OK to do down your own kind – but by then it was the nineties and there was paperwork to do and targets to meet and press to respond to and suddenly he wasn't in CID any more, and his job got given to his DI and then, when she went on maternity leave, to a short-arse twat called Sam Tyler.

"You'd knowingly endanger the lives of members of the public?" Tyler had asked again, disgust in his face, twisted round on the stupid wooden kiddie seats the instructor had made the Driving Course class sit in.

Gene was two rows back and slightly to the left of him, hunched into his coat with dislike of the early hour, the cold classroom and the lack of caffeine.

"I wouldn't let a man I knew had killed someone get away in front of me bleeding eyes just because I wasn't cleared to drive on the frigging kerb."

"No, you wouldn't know he'd killed, you don't get to decide who's killed. You just have suspects – you're the policeman, not the judge, remember?"

Gene, arms folded, stomach grumbling, had looked the man square in the eye, just about at the end of his tether. "You seriously telling me that's how you think in the field, cold as a calculator?"

Holding his gaze in a way few could, Tyler's eyes had narrowed. "It's how I ought to think. How you ought to think. Otherwise, DS Hunt, you will know a killer because it'll be you."

Arrogant as hell, idiotic as fuck, and yet it had blazed from him, from that twat Tyler, that belief, that fire, that force of life that by then Gene had long forgotten, coming up against him and challenging him to meet it.

Gene spends Saturday night on the sofa trying to push aside his thoughts with a six-pack of Carling Export and some obscure replay on Sky Sports. He's woken at 3am by a burning pain in the centre of his chest which eases a little after he's sick. If the fucking GP was ever open at a time he could get to it, he'd go, he reasons, and downs a handful of Gaviscon tablets (thank god the garage sells them) and goes back to sleep.

On Sunday, Tyler's on the twelve o'clock news headlines, which is about the first thing Gene hears. He turns off the TV and stretches and surveys his living room. Things seem to be bearing down on him now with almost palpable pressure and he feels a sudden, strong, almost desperate urge to clear up, to dig himself out. He wanders around emptying the ash trays, then starts picking up abandoned shirts and socks and takeaway boxes and even wipes the coffee table before stuffing a load in the washing machine, having a shower and taking himself down the local pub for a roast dinner and then the quiz – Ray turns up and a bunch of the others from work.

Despite the beer and the laughter and the lads around him, Gene can't seem to clear his mind of the image of the tape on Tyler's eyelids. The memory has twisted – maybe some dream combined things overnight – until he sees Tyler lunging at him, that day on the course, with his eyes taped shut instead of open and fierce and blazing at him.

All of which suggests he really shouldn't visit Tyler again.

It's not like Tyler would even know he was there, like Tyler could have in any way taken in that Gene had had anything to do with him these last few weeks, like it could in any way have mattered.

Maybe Tyler never even thinks about him.

The following week Gene gives out eighteen tickets to unlicensed drivers, another seven or so for no insurance, spends an entire day on the bypass with the speed gun and then on Thursday finally gets to chase some car thieves with blues and twos. All four look to be about twelve years old and run away into an estate but he's faster than they're expecting and their sportswear is not purchased in view of hours down the local Fitness First.

"Fat fucking police git," the one under his knee manages, gasping for breath.

"Sore loser, are we?" Gene mutters, smiling in the fresh air, surrounded by straggling grass, used needles and the dumped Tesco trolleys, with the line of smoking mums with the babies in the pink frilly buggies just watching him.

Back in the Ford squad car, waiting for a backup van to get the suspects to the nick for processing, he looks up the precise details of the wreck of a vehicle he's just recovered on the Police National Database.

_Car: Vauxhall Cavalier. Registration: E599 SRJ. Colour: Blue. Wanted in connection to suspected dangerous driving, leaving the scene of an accident. April 12th 2006, Manchester_

The date he notices at once and two calls to the station for a computer check confirm his first suspicions.

Sitting in his driver's seat, sweaty from the chase, two handcuffed boys in the back muttering abuse at him, Gene rests his forehead on the steering wheel and groans.

He's only just gone and found the car that ran down Tyler.

"Nice weather we've been having," the same nurse as last time says, leading him to Tyler's room.

"I bet you say that to all the visitors."

"Not when it's raining." She smiles and walks away – grey eyes and curly brown hair and a nice chest that Gene can't help but notice, helpfully aided in disguising his gaze by reading her name badge: Annie Cartwright Junior. She was named after her former police officer mum who was one of the first female Detective Constables in the Seventies and followed in Mr. Cartwright's footsteps instead as a nurse.

The visitor chairs are padded and wipe-clean. Thinking of the all the legitimate people who must have sat in them – Tyler's parents, girlfriend maybe, brothers or sisters, people with a real connection to him - Gene pulls one up to the bed.

"Tyler, my name's Gene Hunt." He feels like an idiot, stops, breathes, stifles a sense of déjà vu. "We met doing the Tactical Driving thing."

Probably the less said about that the better. He's wondered before if Tyler would remember it, if his mere presence would make Tyler wake up and yell at him again, revitalised with righteous anger.

"And then we met again after the accident. I mean... Someone ran you down in the middle of the road and I found you. Would be nice and easy if you could tell me who they were, of course, but you're no bleeding use for that, are you?"

He still feels like an idiot. Tyler's eyes aren't taped any more but there's a layer of Vaseline over the lashes, and underneath the thin lids pupils move occasionally, randomly, as if the man's only asleep.

What magical, mystical thing makes you able to wake up from a dream? Why do we trust that when we drift away, we'll be able to crawl back again?

"Tyler," Gene says again. "I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm working on it. I'm..."

Tyler lies still, breathing. There are fewer tubes attached to him now – all Gene can see is the one leading into his nose, taped down, and attached to a brightly coloured plastic bag labelled Nutrison disgorging brown goo.

"Any coffee or tea?" an auxiliary nurse asks brightly, propping open the door with her foot.

"Ta, love," he says, grateful for the distraction.

The tea is bitter, brown and small in volume but at least the milk is real.

"I've got biscuits too – Hovis Wholegrain or shortbread?"

She's pretty – probably about nineteen, small and smiling with carefully painted bee-sting lips that give her an expression of gentle astonishment. "Nothing fancy then?" Gene teases her. "No garibaldis or pink wafers?"

"You want to go to BUPA for that, love." She smiles – the bright purple lipstick clashes wonderfully with her green striped uniform. "Your brother, is he?"

"We work together," Gene tells her, which is more or less a lie but seems to suffice – she makes a grimace of cheerful sympathy and withdraws.

Gene's almost finished the tea, glad to have something to occupy him, to keep his mouth closed, when suddenly Tyler moves.

It's barely anything, probably a reflex – he flings one arm over himself, looking to be aiming for his nasal tube and groans, a horrible primal sound of distress.

He's alive! Gene feels like calling out, like a character in a Hammer Horror B-movie, except that's how it feels, extraordinary, miraculous, exhilarating. His heart is beating fit for both of them as he presses the nurse-call buzzer, half-expecting Tyler's eyes to open now, see him sitting there and flare into life...

The nurse called Annie comes into the room, frowns at the sight of Tyler's flailing hand and reaches for a bunch of keys in her pocket, then unlocks a cabinet by the bed and gets out some vials, a needle and syringe.

"Should you be sedating him if you want him to wake up?" Gene can't help asking; noticing the label; midazolam – what they'd given his granddad at the end; not that by that stage the man had been capable of noticing being alive.

She looks up, wide eyes calm, patient. "Maybe it would be best if you leave," she says gently. Then, turning her attention to her patient, her voice soothing and practiced, she takes his hand with one of her own, the other holding the needle poised in the air: "Now Sam, calm down, it's alright, it's all alright Sam, you're safe here..."

Gene pulls the door closed behind him; his fingers have gone cold, his stomach tight, gooseflesh on his back like someone walking on a grave.


	9. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Gene's aching stomach demands a drive-through McDonalds on the way home from the hospital, although the way his hands still smell like alcohol gel disconcerts him as he eats the chips one-handed as he steers.

On the backseat of his Ford Mondeo Ghia X are the stack of files he's really not supposed to have removed from central records about the case Tyler was working on the day he was run down, which he's been told is still more or less in limbo, since apparently the other senior investigative officer assigned to it has now also taken some of this fabled 'personal leave'.

It's late now, the street lights coming on and the drug-dealers congregating in the alley-ways like shy nocturnal creatures in a hedgerow. In a city, crime is everywhere, and Gene likes that, because you never let your guard down, you never stop suspecting everyone and mistrusting everything. You meet people from the other side of an invisible blue line that puts you in charge, stops you feeling for them. You draw back into yourself and prepare, ready to pounce, ready to win.

He was a winner once, he was the best. He has a nose for crime, a sixth sense for patterns in all that darkness, for the meaning and logic in the void, and now for the first time in years he feels those threads in his mind again, that yearning to solve a case, that need to force justice into an amoral universe. And when his mind drifts, buoyed on that feeling, it homes back inescapably to Tyler, again and again.

On his sofa, in the light of a single lamp, files strewn around, packet of biscuits and a strong coffee to hand, Gene reads about dead women.

Sees the photos too.

Gene's worked for two decades, he's seen some horrible stuff in his time, but this is genuinely nasty.

It seems Tyler was closing in on a killer with all the personal qualities of a Great White Shark; Gene's prepared to bet the entire current contents of his drinks cupboard that what ended up happening to him was not utterly unconnected.

Grabbing a pad of paper, he starts making of a list of names, dates and references that need further investigation and at the top of the page he circles the first person he's going to have to talk to.

"So it was the right car but an unconnected driver?"

DI Roy – 'call me Maya' - is looking at Gene with fixed concentration. She's sitting on the edge of her desk, here in the land of cubicles that is CID where you get a personal computer and buckets of free pens stamped with stop-smoking web addresses and nothing smells of piss. It's late on Friday and even the overworked detectives have mostly gone home, but the office is bathed in fluorescent light.

Gene, standing in front of her, shakes his head. He's been on the phone all day, trying angles, hurrying lab techs, annoying archivists at the database. He feels tremendously awake, even though he barely had time for coffee all day and missed his lunchtime fag.

"I stopped them initially," he explains, "because they matched the description of perpetrators involved in the theft of a Mercedes last week. They confessed to that and to nicking the Vauxhall from a Sainsbury's car park four days after Sam got run down, apparently it had been left unlocked with the keys in the ignition."

She shakes her head, already understanding: "And now all the prints in it are theirs?"

"Precisely. Of the few hundred or so specimens Forensics have found – we'll never test all of them, it's been around since the 90s, several owners - we've got their fingerprints, hundreds of others, traces of spit, semen, blood and piss. Oh, and three bags of herbal cannabis belonging to the arrested boys and traces of amphetamines which they deny having anything to do with. The database has it registered to a Mrs Whiteside in Stoke but she was deceased two years ago, her son lives in America and has no idea what may or may not have happened to it."

He's rehearsed this speech on the phone so very many times today – his ear is aching with the pressure of the receiver, holding it close in eagerness to hear something useful.

Roy nods grimly, biting her lip. "I take it someone's reviewing all the car park CCTV since the date of the collision with Sam?"

"The camera was busted by local youths throwing stones on the 10th, the manager of the supermarket didn't bother to get it fixed for a while and when the tapes start it's already there." Gene has managed now to get to the point of being able to restrain himself from kicking the nearest inanimate object in frustration whenever he remembers this.

Roy sighs – she has the look of someone growing immune to bad news. "I don't know if anyone's told you yet that Sam thought I'd been taken by a suspect in the case we were working on," she says quietly. Another woman would be hugging her arms around her chest, but she is keeping her hands neatly folded in front of her and stares forward at him.

It wasn't until he managed to get time to see her today that some other Sergeant had remarked 'yeah, she'd be interested in Tyler, they were dating, people said they were going to move in together.'

He couldn't process it then, and now he's having even more trouble, struggling to imagine this woman with scrawny, proper, flammable Tyler.

It hasn't passed him by that people have started to talk about Tyler as if he's already dead, and in the last half hour he's noticed even Roy slipping into it now and again. He wonders how she feels when she goes to see him, whether having been intimate with Tyler makes it harder or easier to see his body like a fish on a slab.

Does Tyler react, when Maya Roy talks to him?

He shakes his head, trying to clear it, and waits for more, intrigued.

"We'd interviewed a suspect," Roy is continuing. "It was... well, anyway, I was following him after he left, phoned Sam to say that I was – he told me not to, of course – and then my battery died, of all the stupid things."She closes her eyes in frustration. "And then to crown it all, I ran into some kids mucking about pretending to be gangsters in a playground on the Satchmore Road. One of them was bleeding, I didn't have anything but my shirt to give him, I had to take another one to Casualty. And Sam gets the wrong end of the stick, apparently finds my shirt and... I just keep wondering, if he hadn't seen that..."

Shaking her head, she rouses herself, standing up. "It's stupid to think there's more to it than a simple hit and run, but you want a reason – when someone's hurt you always want a reason."

"Have they given you any word on Tyler's chances for now?" Gene hears himself asking. He's never managed to ask at the hospital himself – he's afraid of being asked what business it is of his, or who he is, or perhaps simply of the answer. "What, and be sued for harassment of a schizophrenic? He's a fantasist."

"Look, Kramer! Can you see what you did to him?" Gene empathasised during the interview of Edward Kremer thirty odd years later to Detective Chief Inspector Sam Tyler after he was arrested on suspicion of leaving an accident scene without stopping in a vehicle with no insurance, MOT or tax.

She stiffens, almost imperceptibly; whether at his use of the surname or that he asks at all he isn't sure. Then, frown passing, "Oh yes, you found him, didn't you? He's just the same, which apparently isn't necessarily a bad or a good thing. Not recognising anyone. But the doctor says it's definitely a coma, not a vegetative state – they've done some kind of brain scan, saw a lot of activity."

Gene's lost, and it obviously shows.

"He could still wake up," she explains, making a passable attempt at smiling brightly. "He's still in there somewhere."

She stands up, picking up a folder, interview over. "Excellent work all round, DS Hunt."


	10. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Gene Hunt had a brother called Stuart, who - one summer in 1975 when he was thirteen and Gene was ten - rescued a young bird which had fallen into their back yard from a very ill-advised nest on a telephone pole.

It wasn't dead, but wouldn't fly, only hop around the shoebox they put it in. They were encouraged when it drank water from an eggcup and stabbed at the woodlice Gene retrieved from cracks in the yard wall, going back and back for more even though it was getting darker and they wanted to be in bed before their Dad got home.

In the morning, running down the stairs in his socks, Gene found the cat in the kitchen leaning over the box, licking its lips. At the table, smoking a fag and still in a boozy cocoon of happiness, their father had been sitting, watching and laughing.

"And... I don't even know why I'm telling you all this," Gene says, stopping the story, trying to shake the feeling of pressure in his chest. Yesterday was another long, intense day at the files and records, trying to chase back the Cavalier through low-rent personal sales ads in the local paper and he finished too late to reach the hospital. Today it's Saturday again and although he has every intention of carrying on working, no one expects him at the station.

He's sitting by Tyler's bed, and he can't remember exactly what he began trying to explain that ended up bringing out all that crap.

"I mean, you know, the old man's brother could be a bit loose with his fists when he'd had a pint or two. By the time I was thirteen in '78, me and Stu stuck together, we could take him."

Tyler's very still today, eyes not even moving, and Gene has to concentrate to see the reassuring sign of his chest rising and falling.

Tyler is by some definition alive, no doubt about it, breathing on his own, but there can't be any way he can hear anything, not that deep under – he doesn't respond to voice, to touch, even when the nurses shake him and shine a light in his eyes as they do every four hours on what they tell Gene are necessary neuro observations.

Telling Sam Tyler is like telling the void – nothing will come back from it.

As always, when he thinks about Stuart, something turns over and hurts deep inside Gene's chest. He'd never told Rachel about Stuart, there'd never been what felt like the right time, he'd never really thought she'd want to know, and he'd never been able to stand the thought of questions.

But Tyler is a million miles away inside his own head, might as well be on another planet, and simply bringing the words out into nothingness likes this feels like bringing the acid out of his chest.

Gene sighs.

"The thing about Stuart was," he says slowly, twisting and untwisting his fingers as he speaks, "that he got into drugs. And I didn't notice until it was too late."

Outside the hospital, spring is moving forwards in a wave of green and fecund proliferation, and of course the sun is fucking shining brighter than it was last week, but although the fact has no meaning it remains the truth, and Gene winds down his car window, enjoying the heat and the scent of cut grass.

Although it's probably in truth not much healthier than the takeaways, Gene feels almost a glow of pride as he buys a selection of ready meals at the garage to stack in his freezer. He stands for a while, contemplating the anaemic collection of flowers in black plastic buckets, before telling himself he's an idiot and grabbing Auto Trader on the way to the till. At the counter there are sweets and cigarettes and painkillers – impulse buys and he takes one packet of each.

While he's been out, Rachel has phoned and left a message about car tax. Gene deletes it and sticks some cold pizza slices in the microwave, sitting on the sofa while he's waiting, pen poised over his notebook.

He probably ought to buy another computer, but he thinks better this way, ink in hand, this is how it used to be back when he was still fresh and bright and invincible.

He's always felt too much, far too much – moments like this, the melancholy sinks into him with a burn that's almost pleasant. Alcohol deadened those feelings more than replaced them, stopped him caring too much about anything, maybe prevented him – he sees it now – ever really feeling enough about some things he should have valued.

What happened with Tyler has largely spooked him out of his usual evening drinks, and has given him something else to do instead. And although he's told Tyler so much today, although he's never been more aware of how far he's fallen down the shitty hill of life's disappointments, now he feels alive, he's aware that he feels - for the first time in a decade – real.

Colin Raims.

Lauren Chester. Tina Mitchell.

Each name a life, but here in front of Gene they're reduced to incident numbers and index keys on triplicate evidence forms, linked only by paper clips.

Like the charts at the end of Tyler's bed on the Neurosurgical Ward, the run of numbers, the wiggling line of temperature and pulse that describe day after day of a human existence, evidence without meaning, information without the ability to inform. That life of Tyler's that Gene Hunt barely knows and yet maybe saved, just after almost definitely, almost nearly ending it.

Sam Tyler is the link, whoever Sam Tyler really is. Sam Tyler connects the dots. Sam Tyler makes the reason clear, or could; Sam Tyler makes it all make sense.

"I'm not who you think I am, and I don't think you're who you think you are either."

That was what Tyler had told him, that day on Tactical Driving, during the period when they were still talking rather than snarling, his eyes quick and his tongue sharp, more alive than you could reckon.

Gene wants to finish that conversation, because the more he reads this man's working out, the more he sees of the man's mind, the more fascinating it becomes.

"Oi! What's all this then?! I didn't ask for a roommate! You remember what happened to my last one, don't ya?" a elderly male voice grumbled from behind the curtain partitioning the sterile white hospital room.

"Now, Chief Inspector Mr. Hunt, that's just a retired police officer ranting away." Nurse Halloway soothed. "We think he might be in a coma; he's only going to be here a short time while we're waiting for the CAT scan machine to be free. He was just brought in; he's definitely unconscious but we're not sure why." Nurse Halloway chose to inform, in the interests of professionalism.

"Does it seem like an accident or a crime, love?" DS Gene Hunt asked before he could stop himself. Raising her eyebrows at his sudden investigation, Nurse Halloway decided to answer honestly. "I'm not sure. There's an investigation going on where you work, but we're pretty sure some sort of vehicle hit him as he was standing outside his own car."

"Was there anything suspicious found in his car? Any questionable substances?" Mr. Hunt squinted as he tried to view his colleague lain in the hospital bed, ensuring that the retired police officer in the next room partitioned by only a set of curtains didn't eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Nothing seemed suspicious at the time. There was an iPod still playing when our paramedics got there, a discarded water bottle, and a book with a few dog-eared pages tossed in the backseat." Nurse Halloway said to the police officer with 23 years of experience.

Gene scrawled her statement into his black notebook to be written out into a Microsoft Word document later. Minding that Kramer had been old, unfit and no match for Collin Raimes; the once misunderstood little boy whom looked up to the schizophrenic turned serial killer.

The main Stopford House station is filled with computers, video, DVD recorders and air conditioning, the smell of warmed paper coming from the printers with fresh colour ink.


	11. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The next time Gene visits Tyler, there's already someone in his room.

It's an older woman carrying a huge boom-box cassette player, the sight of which startles him so much that he doesn't bolt as instantly as his first instinct tells him to.

She's grey-haired and wearing a green dress that has none of the shapeless quality he associates with pensioners. Seeing him, she smiles, shrugging helplessly.

"He had this at his Uni, this massive stupid thing." She laughs, the way people do when they want to cry. "I was going through his old stuff in the garage, I don't know why I just... I found the old tapes – god, remember tapes? Broke half the time, take up so much space, I don't know why I let him keep them all but I found them, and I thought he might like it."

Gene experiences a moment of rare panic, with no idea what to say or what excuses to make, but at that moment the auxiliary nurse with the purple lipstick appears at the door and he's surprised when the woman asks for two cups of tea. Whilst this is being poured she goes to her bag and brings out some fig rolls and a bunch of grapes, which she places on Tyler's bedside table, hands trembling slightly.

"It's stupid, I know, but I just feel like it's the thing to do. I almost bought Lucozade. I saw the card from the CID – I'm sure he'd appreciate it. Nurse says you work with him."

She doesn't introduce herself – he's unsure if she's too upset - but Gene already knows this can only be that phenomenon he himself had never really experienced, a mother.

Trying not to think too hard about it, he brings in another chair from the corridor, sits down next to her and waits as the first tape whirs around, Elton John pouring out his heart in a scratchy distant sound that seems so primitive now to ears used to digital.

# _And I think it's gonna be a long long time / till touchdown brings me round again to find / I'm not the man they think I am at home / oh no, no, no / I'm a rocket man... _#

If Tyler hears it, there's no way of telling, but Gene notices that his eyes are moving again, rapid side-to-side dreaming, seeing goodness knows what.

"It was always just me and Sam, really," the woman is saying softly. She's holding Tyler's hand, leaning over him. "His father left us early days, no kind of person really, no kind of father, though Sam worshipped him. He's probably out there somewhere still, you know. Caught myself wondering if he'd seen it on the news – about Sam – was still fool enough to wonder if he'd turn up at the door. When I first saw there was someone else in here, I half thought... Not that I'd want him anywhere near Sam, now or then. He won't be here, though. Too much of a coward."

She clenches her fist, looking dead ahead at where her son is lying so still and pale. "We come into this world alone and we leave it alone," she says fiercely. "Why try and change that half-way through your life except to have something to miss?"

Gene's dealt with a lot of difficult situations during his career, dealt with a lot of relatives in awful times, but this isn't work and he feels for her with a raw sympathy he hasn't felt in a very long time. Leaning forward in the chair, he watches her, watches her mouth working with grief and anger, the blazing emotion in her eyes that is reminiscent of her son.

"I said I'm not leaving him," she continues. "I told him I'm not and I never want to, but they won't let me visit all hours and I'm looking after my sister, she had a stroke last year, bless her. I have nightmares all the time that he'll wake up without me here."

Although he of all people knows how pointless and irritating platitudes can be, Gene can't stop himself.

"Maybe he knows you're here now?"

She bites her lip and shakes her head, smiling indulgently. Not a look he often gets directed at him.

"Does it look like it? Sam's a long way away, love. A long, long way. Probably can't even feel us reaching. If he could hear me," she's struggling not to weep now, voice going thick. "I know if he could hear me call him, he'd come back to me."

Gene burns with need to help her, but has to rise from his chair and pace away, just to the wall and back, because nothing in life so far has made him very good at expressing gentle emotions.

She doesn't ask how Gene knows Tyler, or anything else about him, why he's here, and he finds himself strangely relieved at that, because he doesn't want to lie, but he can't imagine any way to tell her the story.

Tactical Driving was a mandatory part of being in Traffic, also for all of CID and everyone else who some person in the mystical land of Risk Assessment had deemed likely to ever be in or near a car. Frankly Gene was amazed they didn't make the German Shepherds take it.

'Mandatory' - as in all jobs - had a certain amount of variability, but in this instance it meant what it said on the tin, it was attend the course or get the badge taken off you and Gene had already missed one session.

It had in fact been about two weeks before Rachel's sudden departure. Gene's memories of a lot of that time - before and after - were hazy with alcohol and conversations he'd imagined afterwards - all the things he'd wished he'd said (or not said at all). He'd certainly been in a foul mood that day right from the start, bored, tired, desperate for a fag, sitting in a cold hangar on a disused airfield in Kent with a dozen or so other pissed off looking Police Officers, watching a bloke in a high-visibility tabard write Acceptable Risk on a whiteboard and turn, smiling brightly, to ask them what they felt it meant to them.

In fact, he'd been so intrinsically annoyed that it had taken a good half-hour before he'd even registered that the man he knew as 'that job-stealing, precocious twat', DCI Tyler, was even there.

Of course, Tyler had been in the front row of the class, notebook ready, answering the instructor's questions in a clear, confident voice whilst towards the back, Gene and some of the other older officers sighed, scratched and looked up at the spiders' webs on the high metal struts of the hangar.

"You. You in the third row in the coat. Gene?" Referring to the class plan they'd had to fill in, the instructor had pointed at him. "What would be your next course of action in this scenario?"

Gene had studied the scribbled diagram on the board for barely a moment.

"I'd go after the bastard."

The instructor smiled smugly – seemingly, he'd been hoping in this very way to illustrate a point. He turned to the rest of the class.

"Why is that not what we'd advise? Sam?"

"Risk," Tyler had answered promptly in a superior tone, turning in his wooden chair to look at Gene. "Unacceptable risk of collateral damage."

Gene didn't twitch a muscle. "I'd go after him," he repeated.

"You'd knowingly endanger the lives of members of the public?" Disdain was written clear across Tyler's face and Gene had glared at him, squaring up for the debate.

Just as things were getting to the point where Gene was ready to push aside the desk in front of him and tell Tyler the old come-over-here-and-say-that, the instructor had clapped his hands and brightly suggested a coffee break over at the tables with the large, incontinent silver urns and the foil trays of fibrous, cheap digestives.

Cup in hand, Gene had wandered outside with two other blokes for a smoke, aware of the heat still under his shirt, of the fact that even before the stimulants could hit his system his heart was pounding.

From the first time he'd heard of Sam Tyler, months earlier, he'd instinctively, inescapably disliked him, but this felt more like hate, this thundering emotion wracking through him, the aftershock of their shared gaze still shaking him.

Refreshments consumed, and Gene breathing more slowly, the class had returned to the rows of seats for all the excitement of covering a potted version of the Highway Code, half an hour of bollocks about 'unusual vehicles' and then some indigestibly dry facts about depth perception, peripheral vision and reflex time.

Then there was a video about Risk Assessment.

Gene would have switched off anyway, but he couldn't seem to stop watching the smug little git two seats ahead and one to the left of him; the way he sat in his chair with limbs still and back straight but at the same time clicking and un-clicking his pen; the way he unconsciously straightened his tie every ten minutes and a ran his fingers back over his hair; the seemingly fixed displeased pout of his mouth; the neat blue string of notes appearing on his pad.

Abruptly, at one point, Tyler looked over his shoulder and back at him and Gene found himself looking away quickly, spooked, before he could stop himself and hold the gaze.

After an interminable period the class was taken outside for the practical exercises in the cars. The first involved driving in various formations on the long disused runway; practising controlled stops, boxing in and simple convoy driving. Between turns, people stood about on the tarmac chatting, sipping tea, but somehow no group seemed eager to absorb DS Hunt or DCI Tyler, certainly not both together, and frequently Gene found that they were both standing alone, probably looking yet more like idiots for not talking to each other.

The instructor looked down at his clipboard: "Alright, next pair – Tyler and Hunt?"

"You've got to be fucking joking," Gene muttered.

But no one else looked keen to swap or intervene.

"Now remember, the driver has to drive," the instructor was helpfully pointing out. "Front seat passenger, it's your job to relay info to base and update them, also to anticipate and request clearances for manoeuvres. Your situational awareness needs to extend at all times to the possibility of decamp and you must be poised – in a safe manner, according to your reading of the situation – to be ready to get out and continue pursuit on foot."

"I'm driving, then," Gene stated.

Tyler shrugged, raising an eyebrow. "Oh please, be my guest, I don't feel the need to demonstrate my testosterone levels to the world."

With Gene gritting his teeth, they had climbed into the marked car, which smelt like the practise cars always did, very strongly of body odour and spilt cola and ill-chosen aftershave. The seats were stuck at awkward distances and the steering wheel was peeling leather and managed despite being intrinsically black to look grimy.

Tyler's mouth was a moue of disgust, but he was looking at Gene.

"What on Earth did you have for lunch?"

"Chips."

"They just drowned in the beer then, did they?"

"Are you saying I'm not legal for driving?"

"If I thought that there's no fucking way I'd let you drive me about."

Tyler looked rattled too, face flushed. Gene got the impression he didn't let himself swear very much.

As they set off in the pursuit after the instructor in his 'stolen' Vectra, Tyler picked up the radio and began the running commentary. "Left left at the junction... speed now fifty in a thirty zone... continuing along the A road, requesting other cars in the area to undertake a controlled box, air support would be much appreciated."

"More tea, vicar?" Gene muttered. Tyler was actually being textbook perfect, not missing a thing, which if anything made it more annoying.

Suddenly the Vectra made a sharp right turn and Gene followed with expert precision, gripping the wheel with a pleasing rush of reflexive adrenaline, weaving almost elegantly between the cones that marked the boundaries of the 'road'.

Tyler's mouth went wide open with outrage: "Stop! You're supposed to stop! That's the whole point, this is a pedestrianised walkway through the local shopping complex! We'll fail the whole bloody thing now!"

Not trusting himself to respond and manage to steer at the same time, Gene slammed on the brakes, lurching them both forward with a grunt and, once they were still, before Gene could speak, Tyler pushed the door open and leapt from the car, visibly seething.

They had reached the end of the airfield far away from the hangar, near where the tarmac ended and the chipped edges faded into sandy soil and then a boundary of thick woodland and bushes; after the engine had stopped they could hear the raucous alarm of startled crows flying from their perches.

Instantly, not pausing to think, Gene had got out too, pacing around the car and towards Tyler, who turned and looked daggers at him as he advanced, raising his hands to the heavens, not even slightly backing down.

"You're crazy and you're going to get me killed! You're going to get yourself killed!"

Gene kept coming closer and Tyler had kept just not stepping back; a tosser, maybe, a health and safety nut, certainly, but no wimp.

"You tell me sunshine, how do you catch criminals in your land then, eh? Bore them to death? Smother them with paperwork?"

Tyler was right in his face now, shouting. "I follow the rules, alright? You have to follow the rules, you can't simply..."

Somehow Gene had grabbed two handfuls of Tyler's jacket. His heart was pounding again and more than anything it felt like fear, because he could be a bit of a brawler, for sure, but he'd never before got like this, never wanted to grab a man and shake him, really get hold of him, get right in there and just...

Once, the year Gene had joined the police, when he'd first had the money to take himself far away on a little bed and breakfast holiday in the sun, he'd shagged a bloke.

It hadn't been the plan. It had most definitely never been in the plan but he'd been drunk, wandered into either the wrong bar or the right one, depending on how you looked at it, and it had been the most intoxicating thing he'd ever done, the most in his own skin he'd ever felt, the simplest pleasure he'd ever found.

Afterwards the feeling, the wanting, the sense-memory of it all, it was like the booze, but he'd found himself more able to resist it because at least with the booze even admitting you wanted it didn't have to be a lie.

A queer copper in 1983? Not a fucking chance.

He'd met a nice girl and he'd loved her, in one kind of way at least, and he was always almost sure she never knew.

The confession won't come to his lips even now, even in the stillness of the hospital room, even for the all-absorbing void of Tyler.

"I wasn't just angry with you," he says instead, very softly, watching the unseeing eyes. "I mean, get this clear, you're obviously a knob, but..."

Maybe Tyler knew? Did Tyler know? Did Tyler understand what was happening all along? Did he pick up the strange atmosphere, the chemistry between them? If he'd collared him about it, would it have kept on happening?


	12. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

In the end it's good old-fashioned knackering, plod-worthy legwork that turns up trumps.

For a few days in his Ford, Gene has been visiting the dodgiest garages he's ever encountered, in his civvies, telling a story about his mate's lost Vauxhall Cavalier, knowing almost all the workers he meets will assume it's something about drugs and be as likely to tell him as not if he hints at being fairly threatening.

Finally, in a dim workshop that smells of several semi-legal substances, there's a guy in an overall with a scraggly, oily beard who looks at the picture of the car on Gene's mobile with a glimmer of recognition.

"Yeah mate, I know that one. Wouldn't forget. MOT last year. Terrible. Shot to pieces."

"I'm very glad to hear this, my friend – who brought it in?" Gene's prepared to bet that the car hasn't seen an MOT in a decade, but if it had been brought in it might well have been under memorable circumstances – tyres slashed with a knife, drugs left in the boot, that sort of thing.

The guy smiles at him – he's missing several teeth. "Well that's what you might call the sixty-four thousand dollar question, innit? Not a clue I'm afraid, mate. We don't keep all that many records, you know?"

Gene smiles back, grabs him by the collar, pushes him to the wall and just stops shy of pinning him.

"Oh I bet you can remember if you think. And if that doesn't work, you'd be amazed what techniques they have these days to help with amnesia."

"OK, chill mate! Alright! Maybe I do remember something..."

Gene walks away with a new name on his list.

Kramer.

A few blocks away, back in his car, already on the phone to get things underway on a search of the criminal database, Gene takes another bite of the cheese and ham toastie from the motorway cafe he passed on the way here and necks two ibuprofen; he doesn't have time to stop for a bit of niggly stomach pain.

"What was it about Raimes, Tyler?" Gene leans forward in his wipe-clean chair in the wipe-clean room, careful of the stack of paper balanced across his knees on a discarded meal tray.

"You knew something, didn't you? Your instincts had figured something out, even if you never wrote it down. What the hell was it?"

It's not David Bowie but it can't hurt.

There are a lot of Kramers in the Greater Manchester area – if it's even the right name and the lugworm at the garage wasn't cleverer than that he looked. No obvious link between any of them and Colin Raimes, at least on what Gene's been able to turn up today, certainly not on any of the ones with previous.

It's helped that DI Roy's somehow managed to get him formally seconded to the Raimes case, which has been hanging idle since she's now left it entirely – conflict of interest, she'd told him curtly, not inviting questions. There's no senior figure directly linked to it so Gene's just grabbing the bull by the horns and keeping at it, before someone higher still notices and cuts the budget.

"Come on, Tyler," he murmurs, not even thinking about it now, just asking, asking, asking those unanswerable questions to the void in front of him. He takes a swig of coffee and rubs his hands over his eyes. "Why not answer me, eh?"

Mrs Tyler had told him before she had to leave, an hour previously, that one day when he couldn't visit the doctors had brought in a hypnotherapist, with results that that were apparently called 'inconclusive' – it's still not entirely clear if Tyler can wake up and if he can, why he isn't.

Gene's also met Mrs Tyler's sister now, a lovely lady called Marjorie who can't move her legs or left arm anymore but hasn't let it stop her crocheting like there's about to be a shortage – she has two children of her own, both with small babies apparently, and when she talks about them Gene notices Tyler's mother smile and bite her lip at the same time.

"Dammit, Tyler," he says now, "we're waiting for you."

He sinks into the chair, can't believe himself, still talking to an empty space. "Just listen to me, Sam."

That night, Rachel phones.

"Can't really speak now, actually," he tells her, cradling the phone under one ear as he twists the dial on the microwave, casting a glance back at his pile of paper.

She sounds a little softer today – maybe she's had a rough day or maybe a good one, or just done some thinking.

"You and I never did speak, darling," she says, sighing. "We didn't have a relationship, we had a contract and I think you knew that. You didn't understand me and God knows you wouldn't let me understand you. What decade do you think we live in? It's supposed to be about connection. Communicating, talking, telling each other stuff."

He wonders if she's slightly drunk – he can't quite remember how the tone of her voice should be any more. Hearing her down the phone line is disconcerting, like some strange message from some other side, some other reality, an echo of a present that doesn't exist anymore.

She's still speaking – he can't remember ever having had such a long pronouncement from her before. "Sometimes, talking to you, it was like talking to a wall. And I don't think you ever really talked to me. I could see there was so much inside you, so much feeling just boiling away, eating you from inside. But those walls never came down, not for me."

Phone still in hand, he rests down on the sofa, taking a deep breath, feeling something like an ache in his chest and instinctively looking for the nearest whisky glass.

"I'm sorry," he says, after an awkward silence. "I don't know what else to say."

She laughs down the phone, light and amused and maybe little sad.

On that airfield, that cold day in 2005, the Tactical Driving instructor had pulled Gene away from Tyler, making loud, cheerful comments and suggesting another coffee break before sticking Tyler in his Vectra to go back to the hangar, leaving Gene to drive the practise vehicle back alone.

For the rest of the day they'd been kept well apart, being placed for the other exercises with other, rather palpably unenthusiastic partners.

And yet nothing had seemed real, nothing had imprinted on Gene's mind of the course after that, only that he'd still been terribly aware of Tyler, and that he kept catching Tyler looking at him, unless maybe it was the other way round.

And this is the thing he always tried not to remember, the thing he never told even to himself, that that night he'd dreamt about him, about Tyler, about Tyler coming at him all fire and intensity, colliding, connecting; about getting his hands on Tyler and Tyler sinking through every last boundary and into him, unstoppable, bright, burning life.


	13. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

"I've let him go," she's saying, and Gene can't help but feel a moment of panic, because it sounds like she's cut Tyler adrift somehow, like she gave him the permission to just leave them all.

But DI Roy is looking pretty upset herself, turning a file over and over to shake the pages neatly together more times than can be necessary.

"I went and saw him again – not been in weeks, barely ever went, I couldn't face it, I just felt so..." She grips the file tightly now with her neat, short, unpainted nails and sighs. "I was leaving him, you see, the day it happened. I was leaving him and he wasn't really caring, and then to go and be the other half and have nurses hug you, it's just... And if I hadn't..."

They're sitting in her cubicle at CID – she'd emailed to ask how things were going and it had wound up as a working lunch meeting, sandwich packaging splayed around her desk and two posh coffees in cardboard cups from the chain near the high-street. Now Gene leans forward in his chair, not sure if he's sympathetic or furious.

She straightens her shoulders, taking a deep breath. "I don't think he can hear anything, you know. I think he's gone, I think they killed him and one day this is going to be a murder inquiry and then you might actually swing some decent resources." She gives bitter half-laugh. "I went and spoke to him and as I was talking I thought 'if there's even half a sign he might hear me, I'll stop, I owe him that, I'll promise to stay' but there was nothing at all."

It's a punch in Gene's gut, but he can't hit back and he can't run, not without exposing himself, not without showing his hand far too clearly, and she'd laugh at him, she'd have to, because it's all so stupid, but if he never says it aloud he doesn't have to think about that too much.

And she's upset and she's a good person, one he admires, even if right now he hates her.

As quickly as he can, he opens the file and starts talking about the post-mortem reports, about nylon fibres and potential ways Raimes might have managed to commit the crimes despite the evidence against it; at this point Gene's all but given up on the Kramer lead, there's no sense to it and probably the car passed through more hands between whoever that was and the day it hit Tyler.

They have a good discussion; she's quick to make connections and more importantly recalls Tyler's reasoning and can read his handwriting.

At the end, though, she's obviously also still thinking about it.

"Thing is, he wasn't ever really here," she says, sitting back on the table, staring ahead of her. "He wouldn't feel anything when he could rationalise it. He needed to be right, to be validated and approved. I know he never told his mother about me – I think he knew that it wouldn't last, and that that's not how he was supposed to behave."

Gene can't answer that, and gets up to leave.

"I remember that he talked about you, you know, after that course last year."

Gene turns, his mouth suddenly dry.

"He said you were insane. Gave me some long diatribe about the purpose of the road user protection directives. I've never seen him so worked up about anything." She fiddles with a pen. "Never seen him so alive."

"I'll get those to the recycling bin," Gene says, inane as fuck so as not to say anything else, picking up the cardboard cups and going to the cubicle exit.

Then he pauses, turning back to her, because a part of his brain is and always will be a policeman's, not matter what.

"But what did you think?" he asks, slowly.

She sits up in her chair at once, tense again. "What do you mean?"

"You keep telling me what Tyler thought, what Tyler was pursuing. And then this lecture about how repressed he was. So what did you think? What hunch were you following up, the day it all happened?"

She's already shaking her head. "It was a bad call, bad idea..."

He's coming back towards her now, some sixth sense blaring like a siren in his mind. Funny how guilt affects different people different ways.

"Look, even if you feel you owe him not to prove him wrong - which you bloody well don't - you owe a heck of a lot more to these women."

Gazing up at him, she sighs, and he sits down again, drawing closer.

"I just thought," she says slowly, wearily, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. "That maybe there might be someone Raimes was trying to impress..."

In the end, as with just about every murder case not dreamed up for television, the solution – once seen – seems stupidly simple.

Gene stands next to DI Roy; both of them under his umbrella in a pouring spring shower, watching two houses get stripped to the brick by forensics.

Colin Raimes and Edward Kramer have lived next door to each other for years, since Raimes was a little boy. And maybe if it hadn't been for that impact Raimes would have been just another growling, unhappy adult, but as it turned out he grew up worshipping a man who used him like a hunter uses a dog, to pick up and retrieve his prey, all in the hope of one kind word and a pat on the back.

Was Raimes ever actually present when the killings took place? Was he active in them? There's going to be a long messy court case over that one, Gene can already predict. For his own gut, he doesn't think Tyler had it all that wrong; Raimes is almost certainly going to turn out to be a killer, somewhere along the evidence road.

What they've now managed to conclude - with the aid of the CCTV at the corner shop on Kramer and Raimes' road - is that on the day of Raimes' interrogation, Kramer had waited outside the police station and then followed Tyler when he'd left, ultimately to run him down though whether that was a plan or just an impulse still isn't clear.

"He wouldn't have been interested in following DI Roy," the police psychologist had pronounced, looking at Gene and Maya as if she felt sorry they couldn't help being as thick as they were. "These are two men who view women as objects, as decoration, as a threat to – if anything - their libido, not to their intelligence."

Unlike Raimes' unprepossessing quarters, Kramer's house has a goldmine of evidence inside it and things are taking a long while; as the officers work through it, taking photographs, swabbing surfaces, making dark jokes the way you have to, sometimes, Gene stays standing outside with Maya, watching her look from one house to the next through the veil of water running off the umbrella.

"One door away," she's saying softly, shivering. "One door away and we would have had him and Sam would be safe."

"Why never tell him your theory?" Gene asks softly. "Why not till the day it happened? Because it's obvious you'd had it for a while."

She looks him square in the eye, not challenging the deduction. "We talked about it together, at our flat. We talked a lot about work at our flat. He discouraged it – well, we didn't know Raimes would have an alibi then – but he certainly didn't want that to be the right answer."

"Why not?"

"Because I thought it wasn't Raimes alone just because it didn't feel right. Just like I didn't think Sam and I would work because it felt wrong. He wanted to build his little house of evidence." Leaving the safety of the umbrella she walks along the street a few steps, arms folded, and he follows her to the car, where she opens a door and sits in the driving seat before continuing. "Sam wasn't like you and me. He thought he could make sense of the universe and it would obey, you know?"

"He ran after you, though, didn't he?" Gene is leaning into the gap between door and car roof, a detail coming to him all of a sudden that he'd barely noticed at the time – that when he'd found Tyler, his face had been streaked with tears. "Even though if you'd really been abducted there would have been nothing he could have done, he came anyway."

She sits back in her seat, raising a hand to her mouth, and he can't quite figure out what emotion she's concealing from him. Then the moment passes and she's looking up at him, calm, smiling a little. "I'm sick of the rain. Want a lift back to the station?"

Not like you and me...

There's a choice opening before him, Gene realises, still leaning on the car, looking down at her. You set out on one path in life and it bloody well leads anywhere but where it looks to be going, and suddenly there it is, a place you never expected.

"Thanks," he says now, slowly. "But I want to go to St James'. Tell Tyler we caught the bastard. Just in case..."

She takes a long look at him, confused. Then shrugs, face clean of emotion and reaches to get the door; he leaps quickly out of the way.

She waves through the window at him, and then disappears down the road.

"Ready to crack open the champagne?" Gene strides to Tyler's bedside, kneeling beside him, not bothering to fetch a chair, aware that he's grinning and holding onto Tyler's hand. "We've only gone and bloody well solved it!"

On the taxi ride over, leaving the crime scenes further and further behind, his mood has risen, gradually realising what he and Roy have truly achieved; justice not just for Tyler but for so many murdered women. For the first time in what feels like forever, his existence seems to have done some good in the world; it's a nice feeling.

He stays there a while, still holding Tyler's hand, watching the man sleep, until eventually his heart rate slows and his knees start to ache and he draws back, going out to retrieve a chair and getting some water on the way for his painkillers.

For a long while he sits by Tyler's bed, explaining what's happened slowly and carefully, giving all the detail he's sure Tyler would find interesting and important.

It's funny, although he knew, really, that Tyler couldn't possibly respond to what's happened, he's realising now that he'd half-expected it to be like a computer game, like once he'd figured out how Tyler had come to be in this coma he'd wake up again. Just like fucking sleeping beauty except in that case...

That case was not like this one.

He could leave, he knows. He could go back to the station and write the stack of paper-work he's going to have to, sooner or later. Call Maya Roy, even suggest a drink maybe. Go home, get some food down. All the sensible things, all the stupid things he could be doing right now; he's a sorry, sodding idiot, sat here with a man who isn't here himself.

There's no reason for him to stay. But who says anything has a fucking reason?

Drawing his chair closer, taking a deep breath, he keeps on talking.


	14. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

A month after the raid on Kramer's house, Gene finds himself lying on the upstairs landing for the first time since the day of Tyler's accident, once more staring the sky, stars looking clearer now, probably because he hasn't had a drink in days; to do so would seem too much like admitting how hopeless he feels.

Is Tyler somewhere out there? Up there? Where is Tyler right now?

He's run too many times through his litany of missed moments, of the almost-nearly, of the nearly-almost. There are only so many times he can see the scenes – the driving course, the odd corridor passing, the times he saw Tyler in a room and purposely didn't enter, all the times he avoided contact – before they fade with handling, changing to fit old prejudices and new wishes together, or worse still becoming fantasies of what might have been.

He's even run it all the way back to Carruthers now, to the 90s and his own demotion. If that hadn't happened, he'd still be DCI and Tyler – what of Tyler? Tyler might be his DI, Tyler might be working with him, no accidents, no arguments, no stolen jobs.

What would they be like, together?

What the fuck will he do, if Tyler doesn't wake up?

It's like a pain in the centre of his chest, pinioning him down, this feeling.

When his mobile rings he sits up, twisting rapidly to reach his jacket, and suddenly realises it's no poetic simile but a real pain, lancing through him sharp and burning, making him want to double up.

His own discomfort, however, doesn't merit any of his attention; the mobile is displaying the St James' Hospital number, Hyde Ward extension.

"Hello?" he almost barks into the phone.

Annie Cartwright's voice answers him. "Gene Hunt? Would you be able to come to the hospital as soon as possible? I've been asked to contact you by a Mrs Tyler."

"Why? What's fucking happening?"

"I can't tell you over the phone I'm afraid, sir, but if you'll just come down we can tell you. I'd recommend you don't drive if you're feeling agitated, sir."

Gene hangs up, already grabbing his car keys, fear pushing the still-screaming pain to the back of his mind as he runs down the stairs.

"She wanted you to come and be here," Annie is saying, leading him through the swing doors with a brisk step. "Mrs Tyler, I mean. He's had a surgery today and they think he might..."

The pain in Gene's stomach rises, acid in his craw and a foul taste, the most foul he's ever known.

"We need to hurry," she's saying, turning impatient as he stops, light-headed, unable to feel his feet.

Then he's aware, only just aware of her cry for help as he coughs and – to his amazement, though it feels distant, fuzzy somehow – blood spills out of his mouth, all over him right there as lies – when did he fall? – as he lies on the wipe-clean floor, under the lights, and finally there are tears in his eyes but he can still see it, the unreachable other end of the corridor, the door of Tyler's room.

Agony rips through his chest and everything goes black.

Uncertain time, uncertain where he is.

There's a mess of lights and voices, people in green scrubs shouting at each other.

Sharp needles. An awful taste in his mouth. He calls for a drink but no one brings anything, tries to lash out and get free and they push him down, a hundred gentle, firm hands.

He's on a trolley, something hard anyway, something with wheels. It's cold, he feels much too cold.

More needles, they're sticking something into his mouth, choking him; he bites down, fights back and there's another scratch, waves of pain, and then he's asleep.

"You had a bleeding ulcer," the tall, thin doctor is explaining rather didactically from the end of the bed, running his finger down a page in a folder of notes. "Were you getting heartburn at all previous to this?"

It was a fucking cinder, mate, Gene wants to say, but just nods, pushing his head back on the cool pillow, aware of the cannulas in both arms, the transfusion bracelets on his wrists showing just how much they had to pour back into him to keep him alive. He feels half-sick, floating.

"You were very lucky actually," the doctor continues. "Half an inch to the side and it would have been on a far more major vessel." He pauses to let his words sink in. "We did an endoscopy and were able to give the ulcers an adrenaline injection to stop the bleeding, but there are also more widespread changes down there called oesophagitis, which will need some long term medications to get rid of. And we need to talk about your drinking patterns – your liver tests aren't all they might be."

Gene holds up a hand. "I know, give me the leaflet, I'll sort it out – look, would you be able to find out for me..." He doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to hear it being real, but he has to know. "Look, could you tell if this patient who was on the neurosurgical unit – Hyde Ward – a man called Sam Tyler – can you tell me how he died?"

The doctor raises an eyebrow. "Are you a relation?"

"No."

"I'll have to speak to a relative of the patient involved to see if I can disclose information, but if they're OK I don't see why not. I'll get back to you."

It's several long, horrible, strangely numb hours before he does come back, new sheaves of paper in his hands; he's scribbling on one of them but digs through the pile for another, much-folded, as he approaches Gene.

"Sam Tyler was the name you were interested in? I've spoken to his mother and she's given me full permission to speak to you. I have to tell you, I don't know how you got that message but it's not what you think. Sam Tyler's alive. He woke up from his coma two days ago, the day you came in, in fact."

For a moment, Gene can barely breathe. For a hideous moment he thinks he might pass out again.

"Well then, when can I go and see him?" he hears himself say, before he's even processed the news. "Can they wheel me up?"

The doctor frowns. "We prefer GI bleeds not to leave the ward, but in any case he was actually discharged yesterday. As will you be, if you get through another twenty-four hours with a stable haemoglobin." With a wag of his finger, the doctor turns to leave, and Gene looks for something to throw at him.

As promised, they do discharge Gene the next day.

He gets a taxi home and finds himself standing in the hallway just staring at the pile of pizza flyers that have accumulated during his inpatient stay, and then around at the rest of his house, as if he's never seen it before.

Since they cracked the Raimes case the place hasn't been strewn with files, so he ought to be used to it, but for some reason the clear surfaces look emptier now. To have something to do, he washes the few used plates in the sink, slots the packages of pills the hospital gave him into one of the kitchen cupboards, and then drowns a teabag in boiling water before he realises the milk is off. He goes to slump on the sofa, clicking on the TV out of habit.

What were you fucking expecting, you pillock? Were you expecting him to thank you?

He feels like he's the one that's woken up to face the day, the one's that come crashing into reality, and he remembers what his reality was, really.

It occurs to him in a roundabout way – he hadn't meant to let his thoughts take that path – that he still has no idea where Tyler lives, even if he had any idea what he might say to him.

After a week of sick leave and his own company, Gene's desperate to be back at work, but when he does return he finds that it passes him by in the same meaningless grey daze as everything else.

He's back on the standard Traffic duties for now - although his Super has said some meaningful things about 'excellent work' and 'future role' – and every now and again he finds himself, stuck in the middle of routine cautions and tickets, suddenly uncertain. One day he has to go to St James' Casualty to see a victim in a Road Traffic Collision and take a statement, and just walking through the car park makes him feel strangely like he's stepped into one of his own dreams.

One evening his phone rings and he feels something shakily unpleasant that he's ashamed to think afterwards is probably hope, but it's Rachel, who's heard about him from someone, probably a neighbour, concerned and for once able to have a chat without bringing up the past. He talks to her for as long as she seems to want, but can hear himself barely saying anything, just encouraging her words with the odd grunt of acquiescence.

He's heard that Tyler's also back at the job – has been for a while. The old jokes have rolled out about Tyler's workaholic tendencies, a lot of relieved affection behind them. To Gene it seems far too soon, but then what the fuck does he know about recovering from a coma?

Tyler's based in a different part of the building and Gene isn't sure if – when he absolutely has to go over to it – he's walking so slowly because he's afraid to bump into him or eager to.

One day he's almost sure they pass in the corridor, Tyler looking the other way, texting, but almost certainly him, and by the time Gene's past the surprise of seeing him actually walking the moment is lost.

He's not a bloody fourteen year-old girl and this sort of behaviour is utterly ridiculous, he tells himself quite firmly, but on the other hand he knows that for a while, for a long while, ill-advised or otherwise, his life became Sam Tyler.

And now Sam Tyler is back, and Sam Tyler has gone, and Gene knows some good ways and a few bad ones to stop feeling how he does, but he's through with trying to numb away his life.

If Tyler wanted to meet him, he'd make contact, Gene thinks, and hears Tyler's mother's voice echoing in his head. He misses seeing her too, he finds, more than he would have expected; the sympathetic tilt of her head when he spoke about his work, the way she scolded him about his diet, the simple kindness about her that she'd shone onto him with easy grace.

It's about three weeks after Gene's return to work that he gets a call from Maya Roy.

"They're not playing the old scene contamination card again are they?" he asks at once, ready to start filling in yet another report.

"No, I've spoken to the CPS and they're happy with the case." Maya's voice is anxious under her professional tone. "Listen Gene, it's Sam. I'm worried about him."

Gene leans forward, pressing the phone to his ear, coldness in his stomach and yet a kind of thrill too, to have a legitimate reason to talk about this.

"In what way?"

"He won't talk about the accident or the coma at all, not to anyone. I mean... goodness knows I gave up any right to... I've not spoken to his Mum but I've heard him on the phone with her – I really get the impression he's not dealt with it at all. I don't think he's got all his memory back properly either – sometimes things are coming out... backwards, he said something about his Dad that was just odd."

Gene closes his eyes; no way to convince himself he doesn't care, but can he do this to himself again?

"They'll have stuck him through the post-traumatic Psychologists though, won't they?"

"He's doing some kind of report for someone, but I just don't know, Gene. Like I've said, he simply won't talk about it. I mean we know what happened that day, we know that now thanks to you, so I thought he ought to be able to talk to you if to anyone."

Gene's mouth goes dry. "He wants to talk to me?"

There's a slight pause from the other end of the line, long enough to let him know those hopes weren't worth raising. "Not as such," Maya says slowly. "He won't talk about the accident, like I said. I haven't even been able to bring up that you were involved, not the investigation, none of it. But maybe what he needs right now isn't sensitivity."

"Maya, I don't know if I'm the right one to..."

She interrupts him: "Hold on a second." Then with a click on the line she's back: "Look, I have to take another call, let me know how it goes with him, OK?"

Gene can't stop himself asking. "So, then, are you two...?"

"No," she says softly. "It wasn't right, Gene, I told you that. Maybe even less so now – he's just gone, I don't understand it. It's like he came back but not all of him, somehow, I don't..." She tails off, then clears her throat. "I really have to go. Call me."

And Gene's left staring at the phone, half-way between relief and despair.

Simply tracking Tyler down is harder than he's expecting, the next day at work when he sets aside an hour to do so. He tries Tyler's office over in the main building on the CID floor, near to Maya, but there's no one in her cubicle or Tyler's. He notices that Tyler has no photos in his, no silly executive toys, no free calendars; you'd barely even realise it was usually occupied.

Going back to the main corridor, Gene runs into a smartly-dressed woman with an ID badge identifying her as a CID secretary, who smiles brightly in response to his enquiries.

"DCI Tyler? Oh, he's just gone up to a meeting on the eighth floor, dear. Listen, if you're going past the internal mail docket on your way out, could you be an angel and stick this envelope in please? I really need to get to that phone."

She dashes away at an incredible speed on her high heels and Gene looks down at the object now in his hand, one of the standard internal mail envelopes with multiple destination boxes, the last address crossed off each time by the recipient before being forwarded on with whatever new contents.

On this envelope, the last address scored through was to DCI Sam Tyler.

Before he has time to think that maybe he ought not to, he's ripping it open, shaking out onto his palm a small dictaphone tape, partly run through. Nothing else, no letter or explanation.

Wandering back to the cubicles, he picks up the nearest dictaphone and rewinds the tape with what seems agonising slowness and then, holding it up to his ear in the almost deserted room, starts listening.

'My name," says the voice he'd waited so long, so eagerly, to hear, "is Sam Tyler. I had an accident... in... 1973..."


	15. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

CID are gathered in the office during a departmental meeting all wearing formal suits.

"Where is he?"

Gene's panting as he lurches into the eighth floor office where the meeting is being held, the lift was taking too long and he's in no fit state to wait for anything.

Around a long conference table, twelve or so people look up indignantly at him.

"I beg your pardon," a man at the table head says, "but we're in the progress of..."

"Where. Is. Sam. Tyler?" Gene steps forward, and fuck it if they want to fire him for this, fuck it if they want his head on a plate, none of that matters now. His gut feels like a lump of ice, his hands are freezing with the rush of fear that crept over him as he listened to Sam's tape.

Back here, nothing seems real.

Sam's voice on the dictaphone, disembodied, pale and thin as his body had always seemed, as divorced from the world as that empty shell had been. Heavy-sounding, tired. Despairing. Waiting for the asteroid to end the whole mess – Gene knows that mood, knows that mood better than any other.

"I can't feel anything really. I find that... I miss those people, those... is that common? After a coma? When I was with him – when I was with those people, I didn't feel alone. But they were real." said DS Gene Hunt.

The man standing by the whiteboard with 'Challenges' written on it is also looking at Gene like he's mad, but answers slowly all the same.

"He went out, seemed a bit..." He looks round his colleagues as if for consensus, fucking bureaucrats. "Seemed a bit unwell, maybe? Said something about the roof."

"The roof?"

"I guess he wanted to smoke," the man starts saying but Gene is out and running to the stairs again before the sentence can be finished.

"Sam!" Gene cries out, loud as he bloody well can, a desperate shout he seems to have had bottled inside himself for a lifetime.

The sprint up the stairs has left him breathless as hell as he bursts through the metal door onto the police station roof, but he shouts anyway, with every bit of energy he's got.

At the sound, the slim figure standing within inches of the opposite edge, face turned slightly upwards, twists round like he's had a bullet fired past him, something like horror on his face.

"No..." Sam is saying, softly, shaking his head. "No, you can't be."

Gene's running again, towards him, and the closer he gets the more he can see how pale Sam still is, even as he tries to process the almost miraculous sight of him standing, moving, talking and actually fucking looking back at him; still some fire in the dark-rimmed eyes.

"No, not here..." Sam's hitting his head with his palms now, wide-eyed, open mouthed. "Not here, I can't... You're either real or you're not, Gene, please..." feeling suicidal towards his blue eyed colleague with a long blonde mullet hairstyle almost past Gene's eyes.

Gene's moving more slowly now, cautiously, approaching with one hand outstretched like he would a nervous animal. "Sam," he says again, low. "Sam, listen, I'm here."

Mustn't spook him – there's only one bloody reason Sam would have come up to this roof and the rail around the edge is horribly low.

Sam is breathing more quickly now, chest rising and falling, maybe on the edge of panic, but there's an anger somewhere underneath it too, Gene can tell, an instinctive irritation that seems to ignite between them no matter how they meet.

"Listen," Gene says again, stopping now, hand still held out. "Listen to me, Sam. I suppose I should thank you for not telling every last damn one of my secrets to..." he looks at the envelope still crumpled in his hand, "DI Alex Drake, London Metropolitan Police's Clinical Psychologist."

Sam's eyes are wide, wary: "What do you mean?"

"Well, you mention Stuart, but not what happened when I found him, and there's none of my Mum in there and you've left my ex-wife out of it entirely except for – for some reason – her taste is music which proves the human brain is a fucking mystery and most of all yours – hope you're leaving it to medical science. Would have rather you didn't talk about the backhanders but that's done now, I stopped, who's going to believe it was something I told you rather than something your diseased little mind cooked up? Besides, you've got my fucking job, what else do you want?"

For a long moment, Sam stares at him, frozen.

Then he takes a deep breath, blinking, squinting at him as if he's suddenly come into the sunlight.

"DS Hunt?"

Gene has to pause to finally breathe himself. "Yes. DS Hunt. From the Tactical Driving Course? The insane lunatic driver without the risk assessment? The one who bloody well found you on the ground and caught your bloody assailant and Colin Raimes if you don't mind me mentioning it – did you just not care about any of those details when you woke up, you utter idiot?"

"I didn't want to... someone said something about an officer from Traffic but... and, what, you visited me? Were you the one that... Mum said she did know your name." Sam shakes his head. There are tears in his eyes. "Everyone keeps saying they're real and I just can't..." He gazes into Gene's eyes, some strange mixture of fear and intense affection that has Gene's spine tingling. "I thought I left you behind."

"Sam, dammit! I'm here, OK?"

Gene grabs his hand, pulls him forward, staring into his eyes – if Sam needs to feel something to stay here, then fine, Gene can give him that, because even if it's hate, this'll produce something.

He kisses him.

It's too rough to be chaste, too desperate to be romantic, too uncertain to be tender, but it feels like the whole fucking universe between them.

Sam collapses, or Gene does, either way they sink together to the filthy, dusty rooftop, leaning against the rim and each other. "I know, I know. But I still prefer you being here with me. The real me."

"Gene," Sam says at last, voice full of wonder. His eyes are wide open and blazing and beautiful.

They're still holding hands, connected. Sam squeezes down half-experimentally.

Gene leans over and pinches the back of his hand.

"Feel that do you? Fuck me, let's never do this again."

"Gene!" Sam's smiling, still gripping on. It's a mess, it's clearly going to be a mess for a while but here they are, in the sunshine, together and maybe things happen for a reason and maybe they don't, but this is what happened.

"I don't even want to think about what I would've done if you had gone through with that stupid idea of yours, Tyler."

"Jumping from the police building?"

"Yes, that and all. All that nonsense about getting back to 1973..." Gene looked at him sternly.

They're together now. Close. Only inches away from each other.

Gene Hunt tilts his head back in the sunshine and laughs with delight, and breathes, and feels utterly and completely and brilliantly alive.


	16. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

DCI Sam Tyler was in hospital after the blue Vauxhall Cavalier left him on the side of the road in Manchurian Way during a near fatal hit and run, six months ago. The doctor informs PCSO Liz Cartwright asking her and DS Gene Hunt to investigate an elderly ex GMP Detective Chief Inspector, who claimed to know their colleague during the 1970s. Is there more to this than meets the eye referring to early onset dementia in this man?

"PCSO Cartwright speaking?" Liz asked over her pink Motorola flip mobile camera phone, waiting for someone to reply back.

"Miss. Liz Cartwright?" the voice on the handset asked her. Liz's eyes widened at the question. It was never a good sign when doctors rang up to confirm your identity. Eight years of police work taught her this, if nothing else.

"Yes, this is she. Why are you asking?" she answered with dread pooling at the bottom of her stomach.

"I'm a doctor at St. James's General for Manchester NHS. We have a patient who's been in a road traffic accident," the voice informed, well schooled in sympathy present in it's tone.

"Oh god, is it someone I work with?" she asked scared of the answer.

"We did think so. The accident originally happened six months ago, and none of his loved ones recognise the name of the ex police officer, but now we've been given reasons for you and Detective Seargent Eugene Hunt to investigate this man for historical police corruption. We think he may have the beginnings of early on-set dementia."

"Why wasn't Gene and I were informed earlier?" Nervousness grabbed hold of Liz, forcing every question out.

"As I said we have no way of knowing this 70-73 year old ex police officer is connected to your DCI Sam Tyler: our patient. After the accident he slipped into a coma and was unresponsive to any stimuli until recently." The voice carried on in it's clinical way.

"Wait a coma? Is our DCI going to be alright? Who is he, this strange ex policeman?" Liz forced herself to ask, sinking in her leather desk chair staring at a blank page in Microsoft Word.

"We have great hopes for his recovery now that he's responded to sensory stimuli. Your DCI Tyler has shown awareness of the world, even though he is still unable to wake up, these mutterings about policing in the 1970s; since starting to respeak, this is the reason why we're calling you and DS Eugene Hunt."

"Who is this ex policeman, he's mentioned my?" Liz insisted, dreading the answer but needing to know.

"His name is X Hunt an uncle of your Eugene."

"Gerry?" She said, now why did a relative of Gene's sound familiar despite her never knowing him? Then realisation struck the Police Community Support Officer, almost like a physical blow and she very nearly dropped her mobile phone cracking the screen top.

"You don't know him?" The voice asked.

"I didn't," she answered breathlessly "He worked for our Stopford House station, once a upon a time."

"Then maybe both you and Eugene are able to investigate to answer something else that puzzled us. He keeps mentioning a Guv, but your colleagues and his friends have informed us that he never refers to his superiors in this manner. Would you know who this 'Guv' is?"

"You know, I might have an inkling." PCSO Cartwright answered, a sad smile on her face "Would it be alright if I rang up DS Gene Hunt and came to pick up his ex policeman 'Guv' uncle?"

"It would be ideal really," the voice said pleased "It would help your cold case people gain closure on a historical police allegation."

"We'll be there as soon as I talk to Gene." She smiled wryly with a few formalities, she ended the call and scrolled through the contacts on her _Motorola Razor _mobile camera phone. She taught her nephews how to store numbers inside a mobile, but as back-up she kept them inside a Filofax book written down, as she was 27 or 28 years of age; through the habit Cartwright stuck to since starting at GMP in 1997. Finally finding her colleague's number she was looking for; she dialled it and waited for someone to pick up the other end.

"You're talking to the Gene Genie, so talk fast, I haven't got all day dude," a voice sounding like Philip Glenister informed her. Liz had to smile at that as it was his usual way of greeting colleagues at Greater Manchester Police. He may be 41 or 42 but he was trendy as ever and hadn't changed much since the 80s-90s. He was the same as he'd ever been wearing his usual mullet hairstyle, smart denim blue jeans, black suit, white collared shirt, snakeskin boots and has one of the first Apple I-Phone units.

"Boss," she said without thinking. Classic habits die hard "Gene," she asked hoping that he could help with the investigation and that this mystery former Detective Chief Inspector wasn't one of those who never got over having to retire and that their little slip up had sent him careering into old memories. When the mobile phone accidentally cut their conversation short, the dedicated PCSO carried on "It's me, Liz Cartwright? From Police Community Support downstairs?"

"Cartwright?" he chewed on the name to see if he can remember the taste on when they first saw each other in the station "Worked for me back in the 90s?"

"Actually yeah, I believe I need your help with a former Greater Manchester Police officer, who referred to me as a 'plonk' which is a phrase not used nowadays?" She smiled trying not to take any offence at what a grey haired 70 odd year old ex police officer referred to his female uniformed colleague as. Gene had worked side by side with Liz Cartwright for a while but knew when a former police officer spouted some derogatory nonsense, he'd get touchy of course he did. He wouldn't be Gene if corrupt officers went unchallenged on the blue line of duty.

"It's PCSO or Detective Constable. Sadly love, these old school coppers don't hold with that PC stuff everyone has to live up to these days." Gene Hunt knew it was partly a generational thing.

"So, Cartwright, any reason why you decided to give me a ring? Did you fancy meeting me up somewhere for a quicky, or was it something important? If my photographic memory's not failing me, you have quite the arse on you as like back in the day?" Liz rolled her eyes on this, yet felt pleased that DS Gene Hunt was going to help out with this new case. It felt good to talk to another Greater Manchester Police colleague, feeling just like old times in the late Nineties.

It was good to speak to Gene again. She'd missed him, even if she hadn't known it around the main Greater Manchester Police Stopford House premises.

"I'm only 27 or 28, Boss!" she said, Gene was forgetting that both were speaking to each other on a purely professional basis working for the force. "We're supposed to be proper professional police officers!"

"I bet it's still tasty though in that neon PCSO uniform," he said, and she could have sworn she _heard_ DS Gene Hunt wink through the phone.

"Be that as it may, Sir, that's not why I called. I got a call from the hospital today on a strange ex policeman hanging around the intensive care unit." She said, the happiness eradicated from her voice at the words hospital, ex policeman and intensive care.

"You alright, Cartwright?" Gene said, thinly veiled concern etched in his voice.

"It's not me that's in trouble, Boss." She answered sadly "Do you remember when DCI Sam Tyler was first admitted to hospital, after the hit and run in his silver Jeep Grand Cherokee?" There was a few seconds of silence before DS Gene Hunt answered the question given.

"DCI Tyler? I remember him from that Tactical Driving course we were both on, two years ago in 2005. A bit soft in the head, but a brilliant officer nonetheless. I suppose two suspects with schizophrenia, Kremer and Raimes put him in that awful hit and run incident? Damn shame, he's a good boy."

"Except he was hit trying to stop a speeding driver while parking his Jeep in the middle of Manchurian Way!" Liz exclaimed.

"I know, PCSO Cartwright and I knew you liked him. You two are always mooning over each other to such a degree in the station, that some of the old boys find it sickening."

"That's why the hospital wanted us to go down and investigate. DCI Tyler was in the accident six months ago and he's still at St James's General. He's been saying your uncle's name."

"Oh my days!" Gene shouted in shock "I thought my uncle Gerry Hunt was retired years ago in the 90s?" she could hear him trying to exhale in shock over the news.

"Cartwright," he carried on "I'll be at the hospital and you'll be coming with in my Scorpio. I'm going to give that former DCI a right interviewing for breaking the fabric of the blue line!" He finished the conversation not noticing what he admitted to. "That fat old shit's been hanging around our station before Tyler's hit and run?! And you didn't think to tell me or another colleague about it? Oh, Cartwright; you can challenge expired police officers anytime."

Gene and Liz had been waiting close for 15 minutes in the silver Scorpio Ultima outside the main entrance of the hospital with the Ford RDS CD radio playing quietly: David Bowie's Rock and Roll Suicide, when they notice ex DCI Gerry Hunt came barging towards her from an ancient bronze Ford Cortina Mk3 2000 Executive; surprisingly fast for a man in his 70s who relied on a cane. She suspected that he didn't really need it at all, just kept it around to beat people Gerry disagreed with.

The elderly former DCI didn't even slow down for DS Gene Hunt and PCSO Liz Cartwright, only shaking his head that indicated he wanted the two police officers to follow him. They obediently did, when Liz finally catches up with him quickly.

"Gerry, I think it'd be better if your nephew Gene and I were the ones who could ask to see our colleague Sam." He halted at that.

"Why?" The elderly ex Greater Manchester Police officer asked, suspiciously sizing her up.

"Well you haven't got the best way with people, have you? We're going to see a coma patient. If you lose your temper with the poor receptionist, they won't let you in." reasoned the Police Community Support Officer looking meaningfully at Gene's uncle.

"I suppose y' might be right, Miss. Cartwright," He grumbled. She gave Gene's elderly uncle a nod before stepping up to the reception, asking for directions.

Gene was far too busy playing on his transparent pink Nintendo Gameboy Advance on Sonic Advance at the waiting room not noticing the PCSO was trying to catch his attention.

"DS Gene Hunt, turn that game off!" said Liz Cartwright "Your colleague is in room 314."

They walked in silence, counting off the numbered doors until they finally reached their destination. Liz drew a deep breath as Detective Seargent Gene Hunt reached the doorknob, the door opened from the inside and someone stepped out.

"I'm sorry DS Gene Hunt and PCSO Liz Cartwright, do I know this man?" The elderly woman asked, looking upon Gene's uncle with surprise.

"Why, should you?" Gene accidentally blurted out in challenge.

"I am the mother of your colleague in this room, so yes I'd like to know who's this stranger visiting my son?" the woman said.

"Mrs. Tyler?" Liz asked surprised "You're Sam's mother?!"

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Mrs. Tyler answered strictly "Why is a ex police officer visiting my son and who is he?" nearly tugging Gene's ear in the process like a naughty schoolboy despite being a grown up police officer. Just down the way, two old men argued about the merits of party rings in a balanced diet since arriving from a Tesco Metro. Were they the former police officers Gene and Sam investigated from reopened 1973 and 1974 complaints?

"He used to work in CID, years ago." said Liz hurriedly, making sure to cut off Gene's uncle before he said something inappropiate that would jeopardise the case and get it thrown out by the Crown Prosecution Service.

"We didn't know he was the missing link to the accident until today. Gene used to call his uncle 'Guv' when my mother Annie was still working for the force." Liz said hoping it would be enough for Mrs. Tyler to be satisfied about the new fresh lead; she and Gene turned up.

"Your mother Annie and the Guv? Thank goodness they exist! We were wondering if Sam's mental capacities were damaged," the woman exclaimed in relief.

"If you ask me, they always were," Gerry Hunt murmured, instantly recieving a death glare from Liz and his nephew Gene.

"Would it be okay if we went to visit Sam, now?" The woman PCSO answered hopefully.

"Yes, yes of course. Go right ahead!" Ruth Tyler ushered the two police officers towards the door. "I hope you're able to help find the missing link." Then she disappeared down the hall.

DCI Sam Tyler was laid up in the clinically white hospital bed; attributed to 6 months inside, laying unconciously in the surgery ward, not moving a muscle.

"What else did our DCI Tyler tell you before his accident?" Gene bit out angrily.

"Remember when your uncle pulled in a fake travelling salesman for trying to take over after Stephen Warren? That man was his father DI Vic Tyler going undercover just before he walked out on Sam's mum!" PCSO Liz Cartwright cried.

"Now listen, Cartwright, it is possible that there's a case from 1973 left unsolved since then, six years before you were even born." explained DS Gene Hunt trying to comfort a broken hearted colleague after she worked out the secret pointing at DCI Tyler's comatose body; especially as Liz Cartwright was only around since 1979.

"Then how do you explain your 'Guv' uncle? 30 years of a case lying around in our database archives in limbo!" she asked in anger at the dodgy practises that their predecessors used back in the Seventies when CID was simply named 'A' Division.

"It is true..." Gene insisted in tears "It's possible that there's more skeltons lurking around the database premises..." disgusted at the amount of corners cut during the original case.

"And yet that's the only explanation for an ex Detective Chief Inspector related to you... I'm being a right little CID girl aren't I?" Liz cried pleadingly.

"If this was a test, you'd pass Cartwright and I'd be proud of you." explained DS Gene Hunt.

Gerry limping in circles "That's why birds shouldn't mix with CID!" he said in a loud gruff sexist tone. "'Cause all they're good for is tea, biscuits and working with other plonks!"

"You can't be doing this, Tyler!" ex DCI Gerry Hunt yelled slamming his cane down on Sam's bed with a great thud. "Wake up, Tyler, you've got some explaining to do. I said wake up, DI Tyler. Do I have to make it an order for you to understand?" he shouted, moving closer.

For a moment, the fight in the old former Detective Chief Inspector seemed to ebb out as he was wearing a faded brown camel hair coat, cream loafer shoes and a hidously gaudy kipper tie on a 1970s style collared t-shirt. "Always too stubborn to do as I tell you, aren't you?" He dug into his coat pocket for his stash of single malt whiskey, taking a big swig before limping towards the door.

Gene was taking in all the wires attached to his colleague, all the bleeping of the hospital machines keeping DCI Sam Tyler alive. Kept him going.

"There was always something getting in our way of our romance, Sam?" he heard Liz Cartwright say softly. She pulled her hair back into a bob style and DS Gene Hunt could see Sam's eyes fluttering open.

"Sam! Oh you're back!" Cartwright exclaimed, shocked.

Sam comes out of his coma with the memories and new outlook from the year he was four.

None of the police officers notice the door shutting silently behind an old man with a cane, muttering bitterly about Sleeping fucking Beauty.

Gene radios for DC Chris Marshall Skelton to collect the former Detective Chief Inspector describing him as:_ IC1 male between 70-73 years old, grey haired wearing a faded camel hair coat in brown, cream loafer shoes, a hideous kipper tie and a gaudy 70s collared t-shirt. A borderline alcoholic._

Gene changed his perspective on several key things and got across how he was feeling without directly saying it, because Gene himself doesn't know how to directly say it while Sam was still unconscious. Maya understood why her relationship with Sam wouldn't work and still cared deeply for him. He really wanted to do DCI Sam Tyler justice since the 2005 Tactical Driving course marked an intense and inescapable chapter to their relationship, since the beginning in 1973 at four and eight years old. Sam suddenly realizes he did know Gene Hunt in his own, real life.


	17. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Gene Hunt is of a different era who grew up in the social atmosphere of the 1970s-1980s in Lancashire, Manchester; his interactions with DI Maya Roy, which highlight the changes rather neatly. Gene can simply appreciate her as a competent officer and someone who knows Sam better than he does apart from PCSO Liz Cartwright, without the show of racism and sexism that would accompany his uncle's 1973 persona.

The case is nicknamed as 'How We Smashed Johari's Window' which precludes former Greater Manchester Police 'A' Division officers being presumably now elderly people. Gene may have to face some uncomfortable truths from his and mate DCI Sam Tyler's childhood in order to piece their early experiences together.

Starting up the Scorpio Ultima stroding straight out of his house considering breakfast with a takeaway portion of chips wearing his leather jacket. Anything to get these corrupt ageing police officers bang to rights.

"In my office, PCSO Cartwright!" Gene said brightly, swallowing to remove the nasty feeling in his throat. "Look... I will ensure that this investigation is carried out in as transparent -"

Inside his office he automatically slung his leather jacket over his chair, reached in a drawer for the last known files on former Greater Manchester Police officers who worked here in the 1970s and tried to find his footing in Microsoft Word after gathering NARPO database information sheets on them printed out.

He patted her arm awkwardly, "No need for all this, Lizzie eh?"

She turned her face to him like some glossy magazine close-up, wide brown eyes swimming with tears, the hurt on her face as if proximity to his own raw secrets stung her.

Once she had seated herself, he perched on the edge of his desk, being careful not to knock the shiny slim desktop screen, keyboard and mouse off.

Liz was wiping frantically across her eyes. "I'm sorry, Boss" she said, soggily, "It's just; I would have thought he'd have told me about what else these nasty policemen did to his father years ago."

"Yes, well, you and Sam know, they were not always that predictable, looking at them from our modern copper eyes." DS Gene Hunt was typing away, highlighting the incidents to catalogue for Discipline and Complaints to review despite their historical status. "Now make us both a cup of tea and get some Kit-Kat Chunkys on the side, eh? There's a good girl."

Gene snapped the pencil he'd picked up in half "Tea first, then talk, Cartwright and don't remind me of those bent past it Sheriffs!" feeling mad about the mess, former A Division officers have left in their legacy at Greater Manchester Police's main Stopford House station premises.

His hand typed on the desktop keyboard. Because he never liked them even when these officers were last active; during his first years in the Force. He felt the chips hadn't settled down - it was nothing a portion of chip shop chippies wouldn't cure. He picked up a Pepsi Max from the vending machine, tasting like pick 'n' mix and full of clean childhood memories.

The day passed into another archive database fact finding assignment, when lunchtime hit, he ordered his favourite takeaway meat feast pizza from _Dominos_. Except Gene'd been so pleased with that, with little bits of knowledge these old coppers had no name for, that he'd never sat down and tried to assemble the whole crossword. He tried to find the words or the ways to change how it was.

"Well, yeah, Raymond-o. Under the circumstances, I think it probably is."

Gene had been finding himself telling DS Ray Carling all day quite seriously that, yes, they did need those forms, how the hell would they keep track of the historical police corruption cases without it?

"Come on Boss, you must be pleased as I am that your old soft mate transferred back to Traffic Cops and..." But Ray didn't finish what he was going to say.

"Oi! Leave my admin alone, Carling!" glaring down any commentary from the _Action Man_ of the CID unit on the seventh floor of Stopford House. "It's called by-the-book responsible powers that be, to get these elderly bent and expired police officers red handed!"

Outside the road was messy with the first leaves of autumn, sliding treacherously under his snake skinned booted feet. September – the month when things started to die.

Gene opened the Scorpio and got inside.

But instead he climbed over the gear stick and onto the back passenger seat. Fell asleep there.

DS Gene Hunt woke up the next morning, drooling on the raven black leather.

Frank Bannister had died in a manner as inconvenient as ex DCI Gerry Hunt was at leading the original 1974 case. A man with Down's syndrome, he had been cared for by parent Ted Bannister whom worked for Cresta's Textiles; also brought up on the state benefits since his birth in 1950 and had spent the tax-payers' money to obvious benefit for his additional needs. He had been fed, clothed and taught to screw the tops on tubes of paint and, at the age of twenty four, had the temerity to be assaulted by a local gangster in part of a turf war against the paint factory who used to employ him at the time.

This had occupied police time, but was nothing in comparison to the mess he had made when murdered with a crowbar, presumably by those he had testified against. CID officers at the time used an adult with chromosome 21 features as bait against DC Milton Carling who called him disablist hate names; too abusive to mention for office gossip.

DS Gene Hunt raised his hand to his mouth to better yell after the retreating Detective Constables "And tell my old mentor, DSI Harry Woolf I want the report tomorrow e-mailed in triplicate, I don't care if he misses his bloody golf engagement!"

Gene thought that finally, after two decades of tough stances, he wasn't as hard as he made himself out to be.

Footsteps came up behind him, the low clack of a woman's heels.

"These 30 year old cases, can't be left unsolved otherwise those police dinosaurs will think they've got away with their miscarriages of justice."

"Well, yes, I wasn't planning to encourage the old thugs, Liz, though thank-you for pointing it out to me." Gene logs out of his computer as he'll be due on the Interview shift happening later.

DS Gene Hunt yelled at ex DC Milton Carling to find some fucking manners, and returned to the front Custody desk to find DCI Sam Tyler and PCSO Liz Cartwright gently comforting the former police officers original victims. And yes, former DC Milton Carling was a tosser to use words like that to a distressed man, even one with Down's Syndrome on the basis of calling him a spastic years ago. There's a loud and unpleasant coughing in the background of the blue cells down in Custody.

"I think we need to explore whether this attempted murder of Ted Bannister's second son with Down's Syndrome was a hate crime."

An interview. Someone puts in a tape and presses the Record button. Sam lines up his pens.

"What, a dyslexic racist moron like you?" scoffed DS Gene Hunt "That isn't superior or nor about pride in being a man; if this happened nowadays, you'd be suspended immediately from the Police Force on the grounds of disablist hate crime." chewing his _Hubba Bubba_ cola flavoured bubblegum to distract himself and not get too emotionally involved with this case against ageing ex police officers who worked in Greater Manchester Police CID during years 1970-1984.

Sam Tyler and Gene Hunt are horrified at what former Detective Constable Milton Carling comes out with next during the interview. He has lost some curly hair, has a greying Breville moustache, more paunch but still recognisable with hints of Dean Andrews in him, even after all these years; then all of a sudden he sits there just chewing his Wrigley's gum as if nothing ever happened.

"Word in your shell-like, pal." said DS Gene Hunt quietly under his cola flavoured breath.

"Yeah?! What about this? You're a gay fairy cop, Gene, go on you've been keeping that secret since '83 aged just 18!" threatened ex DC Milton Carling taking a swing for Gene until DC Chris Marshall Skelton intervenes using the standard safe de-escalation techniques.

"Sit down, Mr. Carling otherwise the interview will have to be suspended and you return to Custody to sleep it off." said the eager to please Detective Constable with a denim suit and a dark brown mullet with blonde highlights inside and the latest brand of trainers.

"You said, 'Fight me and you will end up like chopped liver'" to Frank Bannister who clearly had Down's Syndrome and illiteracy during an illegally not recorded interview in Lost Property. You being in a position of trust should have told your Detective Chief Inspector about this; yet you and Gene's uncle laughed him out of the station!" DCI Sam Tyler bit out with gritted shiny white teeth. "You are a first-rate fantasist who is thankfully extinct from modern policing."

He shows Carling a computer photofit, which resembles him. Carling looks scared.

"This — is your diary. We found it in your room." Gene Hunt shows him the transparent evidence bag with an old 1974 diary inside in a very dated colour. The lawyer, social worker and his psychiatrist are writing their notes down about the recorded interview.

DCI Sam Tyler was quoting one of the entries "That particular entry is not awash with ambiguity. Dated November the fourth '74. The day after the gang murder against your victim with Down's Syndrome, whom you've failed to help."

Thankfully the interview against former DC Milton Carling was finished on time after what he did when Frank Bannister came to the then 'A' Division department after a gang turf war involving the paint factory he worked in upset him.

"Right. I've gotta get down and give the tabloids a statement and if I don't get a move on, they'll be hounding celebs for _Hello!_ magazine with a couple of Argos vouchers." said Detective Seargent Gene Hunt walking to his top of the range Ford Scorpio Ultima in silver.

It had turned out, however as he'd sorted through Frank Bannister's file from 1974 (all these habits, couldn't lose any of them and been taping their interviews) that Frank had attended a kind of social group for 'Mencap' in Little Italy where his father grew up in. It had met in the Circle bar at the old Theatre Royal, apparently, and used the theatre's on-site craft facilities for learning projects. Gene had heard of such a thing, but the woman he'd phoned had told him that years ago then new policy was focussing on getting such people out of institutions and 'into the community'.

"Our arrest rate is as good as ever – better than ever before,"

"Yes, We can still recorded interview a suspect, we haven't run out of HobNobs and the new criminology techniques are working well."

For this triumph, he could process what she'd said, the maths and logic required of him. Then it gradually dawned and he grabbed her up, hugging her and lifting her clean off her feet whilst she giggled in amazement.

"Bloody hell, PCSO Cartwright," he laughed, "You may just have earned yourself a DI badge."

Gene's been eating a yellow-and-purple wrapped chocolate bar with 'only the crumbliest, flakiest chocolate' inscribed in curly writing referring to a _Cadbury's Flake_.

"Sam, stop playing silly buggers, it's me." Gene searched Sam's face, from the ever-anxious eyes to the thin, soft lips, his own overwhelming, gut-level recognition perplexed by the Detective Chief Inspector. "I'm your old friend" he said, at last. "We met in February. That year. 1973. Over spaghetti hoops on toast at your Mum's, remember?"

DS Gene Hunt brought his toast and beans, and squeezed ketchup over the gooey mess.

"Yeah, we did. For good reason. As far as we're concerned that old DC from what was A-Division we pulled in, retired on the grounds of historical police brutality."

It was beginning to get dark. The rain that had begun to fall on the café windows was glittering with the lights of passing cars. A couple ran in from the wet, laughing and brushing at their clothes, and Gene stroked his hand over his mouth staring fixedly at his poached eggs.

Gene couldn't quite believe himself. His dedication to the job, albeit to his own method of doing it, had always been one hundred percent. He'd never taken leave, skived off or skimped on his overtime since being a fresh faced new kid in Greater Manchester Police, 1983.

Gene walks back to his office to collect the original photograph negatives and returns to place them on the small table in Interview suite 4; ready to show to the old former DCI, 30 odd years later.

DS Hunt had a smug set to it, with the patronising smile of a school teacher. "I could ask you why you didn't arrive at your office at 8.30am on the morning of 8th February 1974. I could ask you why C-Division in Hyde had to almost arrest you yesterday for breach of the peace under Section 5 of the Public Order Act 1985. I could even ask you why your office apparently had more whiskey bottles than file dividers."

"You're more like absolutely gorgeous cop." his former police officer uncle sneered at nephew Gene Hunt in a homophobic jibe disrepecting DSI Stephen Hunt, younger brother to this elderly man in front of them and father of now adult Gene. "Like father like son!"

"Interview commenced at 11:19 a.m. The suspect will state his name." said DI Maya Roy sitting inbetween DS Gene Hunt and DCI Sam Tyler at the interview table on ergonomic plastic seats.

"Ex DCI Gerry Hunt." replied the 70-73 year old man with completely grey hair shown on the CCTV camera inside the fourth interview suite.

"Also present are the suspect's lawyer, psychiatrist, and social worker." sat next to the old retired Detective Chief Inspector: seeing his uncle as he is now brings back another hidden memory of 1973 for Gene.

"I was only eight in 1973," said DS Gene Hunt "when you first knew the killer as a misunderstood toddler. Colin Raimes! ...yeah he was in nappies." remembering the very time he saw Collin Raimes aged two or three at the time with ginger curly hair in an early seventies-style street with its old-fashioned shops and cars, he runs away into Woolworths, to take some sweets and Corgi cars without paying. Some kids playing in the street as Stephen's car comes screeching round the corner.

A young Gene Hunt was sat in his father's Ford Cortina Mk3 GXL saloon in yellow witnessing WPC Phyllis Dobbs return the tiny toddler safely back to his grandmother Beryl Raimes.

"You mustn't go wandering off without a responsible grown up, okay young man?" instructed the policewoman at the scene of Edward Kremer's house, one next to the house Gene's best friend will raid in the future, 33 or 34 years later.

A young Collin Raimes nods at WPC Phyllis Dobbs feeling utterly sheepish for being naughty.

"Anything happens to this motor and I come over your room and stamp on all your toys, got it, Eugene? Good kid." then smiles affectionately at his eight year old David Bowie mullet bearing younger son closing the rear door.

The kids playing in the street in front of the car. A young Gene comes past, eating a burger and holding his beloved 313 Corgi Ford Cortina GXL in that very familiar bronze.

"Excellent work, Eugene, my boy." showing his father who wasn't a million miles from himself as a grown up. Stephen flicks some coins into the air. The kids squeal and chase after them, shouting "Thank you!" in high-pitched voices. The car radio is crackling. Little Gene grabs it and pulls the handset outside the car.

"Gene Hunt, what?" remarked the eight year old boy answering the PYE Westminster police telephone chewing a mega Drumstick lolly in similar fashion. The car, 8 year old Gene is talking on the car radio to his old man's colleagues.

It's Chris Skelton's young DC father who could be heard over the static once moved.

"Tell DI Vic Tyler we've found one of his names in the collator's office."

"Ask my old man, I'm not really supposed to be taking his radio calls..." said Gene nervously.

A creepy little ginger-haired kid is standing on the step of the house next door, watching. The killer Ed Kremer and a younger Colin Raimes wave to each other. Beryl Raimes comes along with a policewoman. Gene stares in astonishment as the younger kid goes inside.

"Get inside Collin!" ordered Beryl Raimes walking towards the terraced house carrying her shopping bags through, a blue retro Bedford CF van is parked nearby wearing vintage British Gas livery in shades of blue and white on the sides with the sliding driver's door open.

As the police car drives off, the scene — the terraced houses with a highrise block of flats in the background — is almost identical to the scene at the very beginning 33 or 34 years later.

"This will teach him some manners, he'll be seeing the inside of a loony bin," thought eight year old Gene Hunt "Daddy'll bang up a hooligan by lunch." pretending to drive the Cortina GXL and dreaming of becoming a police officer someday. Young four year old Sam only smiled at that. That was the Gene Hunt he knew. The always proud, funny and apparently tough future DCI.


	18. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Back to the present day 2007; Gene lines up his blue police notebook, pen, Hewitt Packard laptop with Microsoft Windows Visa and turns on the tape recorder in perfect parallel.

"We were in court yesterday with the CPS. Now, you know as well as I do that something smelt bad about this whole old school ex coppers thing." said DS Gene Hunt with his colleagues including DI Maya Roy and DCI Sam Tyler sat at the big conference table with bottles of water amongst them.

Former DCI Gerry Hunt rolls his eyes at the new fangled interviewing techniques under his breath. "Oh, fuck!" pretending to smoke on a blue ball point pen, not understanding the no smoking laws on the main Stopford House premises of Greater Manchester Police.

"This should have been standard practice, years ago." Gene puts the tape in and presses Record; shocked at the violent practises used in the Seventies to Eighties when he was just a child; at police officers framing innocent people for crimes they never did, violent brutality and cutting corners on cases.

"July 17th 2007; Present at interview: DCI Sam Tyler, DS Gene Hunt and DI Maya Roy." said DI Maya Roy determined to press on with the interview against the former Detective Chief Inspector before the time limit is up.

"Two bullets, retrieved from a former boxing promoter Haslam's address: a gun with the same calibre as 1970s police issue." DCI Sam Tyler presents the bag of ballistics sealed as evidence.

"Witness statement from a neighbour woken from sleep by bellowing and cursing. She looked out of her window to see this man -" stated DS Gene Hunt who holds up an old developed colour photo of Gerry wearing a beige camel coat, then places it down on the table in front of him.

Gene Hunt's uncle's representive is attempting to sabotage the evidence and interview.

"With all due respect, Mr Merrick -" interrupted DCI Sam Tyler before being cut off verbally.

"Yeah. Given that you've not yet charged my esteemed client, I don't quite see how you've had the brass to hold him in Custody as long as you have." Merrick coughs deliberately to spread unwanted germs on the Interview table; it was obvious the three police officers could smell traces of strong alcohol on him.

"Well, I think I've already explained that we're awaiting further testimony before sending the historical cases up to Discipline and Complaints for a charge decision." stated Gene Hunt who was already bored of the dodgy lawyer prattling on; wondering whether to get him breathalysed to measure the amount ingested in his bloodstream.

"That's hardly my client's problem. Oh, with the very greatest respect, Eugene ask your Detective Chief Inspector friend to, put up or shut up."

"Taking into consideration the serious nature of the offences—" DI Maya Roy interjected halting the bent lawyer's dodgy singing in the imitation of a long ago 1970s comedian turned singer.

Merrick launches into a full imitation of Louis Armstrong now. He sounds quite drunk, meanwhile DC Skelton takes him to the breathalyser machine, a large white machine designed to measure the units of alcohol; seeing whether the level given in a sample is in, under or over the legal limit for driving.

"Keep blowing, keep blowing, keep blowing." instructed the desk seargent in his neon reflective uniform, the breathalyser machine beeps to confirm Mr. Merrick's results are legal or not.

After Merrick gives a breath sample, the two officers look at Sam and sigh in boredom.

"In spite of your inappropriate behaviour, under the circumstances I am willing to release former DCI Hunt on police bail. On condition—" Gene was interrupted by Mr. Merrick once again in the sterile CID floor surrounded by computers, fingerprint machines, printers, photocopiers and fax machines with the sleek office style landline telephones.

"Huh. Conditions?" A clue in which Mr. Merrick has not kept up with current regulations in his profession of lawyer for years, is a chronic alcoholic and had bribed police officers for hush money back in the day.

"—To the police— for the purposes of bail -" informed DCI Sam Tyler in his formal style.

Mr. Merrick laughs uproariously.

"Come on, lovely old lad. We're done."

The fishy lawyer and elderly former DCI of Greater Manchester Police leave the main Stopford House premises escorted by two members of the Police Community Support Officers team; Gene's uncle thinks lowly of these 21st Century style bobbies on the beat; remarking that they're plods and plonks underneath all that techno-babble stuff.

"Gerry was past his prime then, but, er... if you wanted to see a real copper, spitting blood and suspects teeth he was your man."

Sam and Gene follow signing the form on a plastic blue clipboard and hand it to the desk seargent, on foot towards walking down the steps outside.

"Yeah. Apparently his policing days were over well before he got his hand broken. Your corrupt uncle decided to help himself to a retirement package from a cash box at the Superintendent's office."

"Let me know what else you find on those old cases. Cause we're both good coppers and mates. Keys." said DS Gene Hunt gesturing to his silver 1995-1999 Ford Scorpio Ultima saloon parked where his dad's beloved Ford Cortina Mk3 GXL in bright yellow used to be in exact perfect parallel.

Sam hands over Gene's car keys and Gene goes to his Scorpio.

The historic evidence was staring Gene in the face, when he had requested the files of the Greater Manchester Police CID team folders from the 1970s and the heavy box parcel arrived at his office.

The two went over to Sam's father ex Detective Inspector Vic Tyler's flat, born in 1942 he recalled that then DS Milton Carling never really recovered from the jade blue Hillman Avenger estate car bomb blast near a primary school that nearly wiped him out. He continued to suffer from PTSD for most of the 1970s until that fateful day in 1980 when he pulled his gun on a fellow police officer.

Gene and Sam were helping ex DI Vic Tyler track down the whereabouts of his old team members. They found Gerry in a retirement home. He was sitting playing poker with the other residents. DCI Gene Hunt joined in with a game very clearly sweeping the floor with the elderly people and smirkingly telling them that they could not fool the Gene Genie.

"You can't fool the DCI Gene Genie!" until Sam reminds him they're here on a case, not with the PCSO unit from downstairs in Stopford House or the Neighbourhood Watch old guards.

Gene had tears in his eyes just seeing what became of his crass former DCI uncle. He figured there was different endings; walked away with DCI Sam and ex DI Vic Tyler outside of the activities lounge. Sam's father couldn't almost bring himself to look for the others, but curiosity won out.

The two grown up DCIs found Milton Carling in a psychiatric home. Ray's father was just sitting there facing the garden looking so small and haunted by the past 33 years. The female orderly walked past let the three men know that they could see Milton; but warned the possibility of him not being able to answer the two policemen's questions since he was on medication.

Ex Detective Inspector Vic Tyler felt it was his fault, but Sam his only son and mate Gene smooth the commotion out in their power as current police officers "Dad, you weren't to know that our colleague Ray's old man would end up with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or that your old Guv ends up in a retirement home."

"Really? I thought I was the biggest pain in the arse, that the Guv has ever seen in the station..." said ex DI Vic Tyler in tears of sorrow as like Sam and Gene he was into police techniques way ahead of his time.

"I thought my Guv uncle was finally going around the bend; when he said he had you on his CID team. I guess he was right for once." said DCI Gene Hunt cracking a smile promptly steering Sam and Vic Tyler towards his top of the line Ford Scorpio Ultima.

"This reminds us, exactly why we became police officers in the first place!" chimed Gene driving along to his favourite glam rock music back to just laughing around with Sam Tyler as usual. Vic felt he should have stayed in Greater Manchester CID if it wasn't for those Morton brothers jeopardising the police assignment back in 1973 when four year old Sam witnessed a gun man holding a then WPC Annie Cartwright wearing a red dress with Mary Jane shoes hostage, near the community hall that his aunt Marge's wedding was being held at. A eight year old Gene Hunt was watching the action unfold from Stephen's gloriously bright yellow Ford Cortina Mk3 GXL listening to his favourite David Bowie song playing.

The next day at the main Stopford House base, there's a buzz in the CID offices about the survellience assignment they've been given on one of their colleague's relative who worked for two constabularies since 1953 aged 19 after two years of National Service during 1950-1952.

"I want you to keep my uncle ex DCI Hunt under close surveillance." ordered DS Gene Hunt writing on the whiteboard in a blue wipe clean marker pen next to photos of the former Detective Chief Inspector of Greater Manchester Police with photos of him as he is now.

"Why?" complained DS Ray Carling, possibly jealous of the possible promotion coming up, more interested in watching _YouTube_ than concentrating on the briefing inside the boardroom.

"We know what Gene's uncle is up against, and we know what he's capable of. I wouldn't want any of our witnesses experiencing some of his more... abrupt methods of persuasion." stated DI Maya Roy in a serious tone of voice pointing to the twenty to thirty year old photographs of suspects battered to order in various states from Chinese burns up to crushed skulls.

"What, you're joking, aren't you? It was a different world in those days!" gasped DS Ray Carling.

"Well, unless you think this particular... suspect deserves special treatment because he's an ex police officer?" questioned Detective Chief Inspector Sam Tyler who was setting all the equipment up for the stakeout, signed his name on the nominated drivers sheet and had unmarked cars out ready to go; along with a Ford Transit High Cube filled full of technology.

"I'm not disputing that, sir." said Detective Seargent Ray Carling in his curly permed hair.

"Good. Look, I know it's not a very pleasant job, but I'm sure you two will do it to the best of your abilities." stated DCI Sam Tyler wearing his black suit, a St. Christopher's medallion necklace and a blue collared shirt with polished black shoes.

They get up and go. Sam and Gene walk through the office, stopping in front of Liz's desk.

"Well, with PR in mind, I have a very special assignment for PCSO Cartwright."

He hands Liz a file.

"Road safety?"

"Well, you know, this case... it could get messy, so... you're probably better off out of it."

"Well, thanks for your support, Chief Inspector." smiled the uniformed female PCSO.

"Why don't you check up on the others, see how they're getting on? Show your face more often in this department." asked DCI Sam Tyler to DS Gene Hunt while he deals with Chris and Ray not keeping an eye on the Transit's on board CCTV system during the obversation; breaking procedure outside Gene's childhood 1930s semi-detached he grew up in during the 1970s.

"That kind of incompetence might be acceptable to ex DCI Hunt, but I can assure you it is not acceptable to me! Now get out of my sight!" shouted Detective Chief Inspector Sam Tyler tucked in privately at his office to DC Chris Skelton and DS Ray Carling wearing their plain clothes.

Gene could hear every word from his own office as he was catching up with overdue admin.

Sam watches Liz's road safety lesson from a classroom window. There is a young girl riding a bike around the school playground while a load of kids chorus the lesson.

The kids chant: # At the kerb, halt

Look right, look left

Look right again

And if all clear, quick march! #

"Aren't you supposed to stop children from getting knocked over?" asked DCI Sam Tyler who helped Liz up from the Tarmac ground after the kids pretended to run her over with various Little Tikes cosy coupe cars, bicycles, Berg branded go-karts and Micro scooters.

"You're good policemen, sir. You've taught me a lot, Sam and Gene." replied Detective Constable Chris Skelton who was sat alongside on a red leather bar stool alongside other colleagues and watched the Sky football match on Manchester United versus Chelsea.

Meanwhile at DCI Sam Tyler's flat inside the converted former Crester's Textiles factory; Gene has a heart to heart both as a childhood friend and fellow colleague of the Greater Manchester Police service.

"Coppers like my uncle dragged himself out of the gutter using his fists and not his brain. Earned the respect of his fellow police officers. People like Jack Regan would have died for him. And when it came to money, well, he always had a few tasty sidelines."

"You wanted a bit of extra pocket money as a kid?"

"Yeah, and then the odd tenner from my Dad. D'you know, what really sticks in my gullet is that I put a stop to it, all of it, years ago."

"And inside that envelope was a load of cash. Oh, and, er... a little note. "If you keep quiet, I won't be sending a letter to the Chief Constable telling him about our little previous arrangement."

"So your uncle verbally abused you? By blackmailing you to get him off the historic GBH charges?"

Gene nods.

"Yes. My cabinets. Which I just so happen to have the keys for. In one of them is some old crime photos dating from 1970 until 1984 before the Police and Criminal Evidence Act reforms kicked in." Gene sets DCI Sam Tyler an undercover challenge with dressing up involved "Can you dress up as a road safety prop, enter my office and collect the old files into as many boxes?"

Sam dresses up as a ROSPA road safety hedgehog wearing a bright reflective jacket to collect the old files from the cabinets in Gene's office, one colleague walking by asked how the case is going; but instead tells her he and Gene are on another primary school visit covering for a uniformed colleague off sick.

"It's that primary school road safety assembly for the Police Community Support Officers."

"Good, hearts and minds." the secretary in the reception area says as she was busy processing criminal records on the computer and seeing to these who were due to be in Custody.

"Gene and I are covering for a uniformed colleague Kathy, on sick leave." he says with laden boxes in front of him, with folders up to nearly 36 years old.

Gene sits up just as abruptly in Sam's bed, yelling after watching too many horror films.

"What is it?! Jeez!" sitting up in bed suddenly awake wearing boxer shorts and a necklace.

"Yeah, a twenty-stone baby. Burps, snores, farts..." teased Detective Chief Inspector Sam Tyler sniggering at the senior DCI all the same.

"Whereas me, slept like a baby and I do not snore!" Gene protested with good humour.

Gene's Scorpio arrives in a narrow alley, pulls up and then reverses until it's level with where its driver wants it to be.

"But the police brutality shouldn't have happened. Floored the other poor fellow with a single punch like an Alsatian dog. In a forced confession with dangerous interviewing practices."

They both get in the car.

"Ex DI Mickey Holmes. He owes me one. Seventy-eight, and still drives like a bloody lunatic. Mind you, when I park he'd better not scratch the paintwork of my Scorp. I'll get him arrested for driving without notifying the DVLA of medical conditions and driving without due care."

Gene and him. They'd perform their duty as best as they could, each one believing in his own policing methods, but always respecting his partner's ideas as respected lawmen.

As soon as he'd been declared fit for duty and re-admitted into his CID, Sam had given in to his need to know the truth about his strange adventure in time and space, so he'd carried out some extended computer research within the police archives and discovered that his and Gene's 1973 equivelents had really existed, much to his amazement. His friend Gene had just been repromoted to Detective Chief Inspector, after being bumped back to Detective Seargent a decade earlier in the 1990s.

Annie Cartwright was the one he'd found out the most about: she'd got married to Neil, had one daughter in 1979, and another in 1990 but had earned herself quite a career in 'C' Division, Hyde. Now she was in her early fifties, having retired a few years earlier with a spotless curriculum as a criminal profiler. Somehow, that discovery had made him smile.

There must have been nearly 100 people stuffed into the canteen, including, she noted with astonishment, Superintendent Dorney. Alex looked around, saw Shaz and Chris sitting as though welded together; Ray was sitting with a clutch of CID faces, and Viv was in the front row, looking rather fit in civvies, long legs stretched in front of him. No sign of Gene – hardly surprising since he was finishing overdues, but Alex was annoyed to note the twinge of disappointment.

He smiled at Sam with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "It's good to have you back, Sam!"

"And a damn good Guv'nor, too!" he smiles back to his team "We search out rule-breakers at every chance and send the bent police officers to Discipline and Complaints."

"We are modern 21st Century coppers after all." remarked DCI Sam Tyler in front of his neat desk free of paperwork piles, with a office style telephone in satin silver next to the computer.

"I am the Boss of the C.I.D!" Gene cheers drawing himself up to his full six feet before the sterile CID premises go quiet with everyone returning to their sleek slim desktop computers; it was quiet enough in CID to hear the hiss-tick-hiss-boom of Gene's old Sony Walkman playing obscure 1980s to early 90s music just before 17 year old Carol Stockman walked in introducing Detective Inspector Alex Drake from London's Metropolitan Police.

"I did an act at the Christmas do singing David Bowie's _The Jean Genie_, the first year I joined the police in '83. And as my second middle name is Michael, don't know why." said DCI Gene Hunt.

DI Alex Drake thought for a moment. "Do you know, I have no idea? The last time I saw him he told me he was going back to his first wife. I was dumped for an older, stupider, boring bloody woman. They went off to Canada on holiday, and I've not seen him since. He phones Molly, but I only hear from his solicitor." She looked at Gene, the anger and hurt in her eyes. "Anything else? Want a list of my other failures? It's a long bloody list..." The tears welled, threatened to spill; she couldn't look at him.

"Sam and I teach Chris all sorts. Taping interviews, doing forensics for SOCO, admin and Tactical Driving; you name it." winked DCI Gene Hunt bearing deep pock marks... must have been a heavy case of acne as a teenager in the 1980s despite lots of money spent on _Clearasil_ and _Rimmel _creams. In a 22 year old photograph from 1985 at his parents wedding anniversary, would the fair-haired one really be Gene? A young, baby-faced Guv? Yes it is in a pageboy outfit.

Alex hands Gene his favourite Cadbury's Curlywurly bar "Thanks," he replied with a smile as he sat down at his sleek slimline desktop computer glancing at the screen of the records on past Greater Manchester Police staff.

_Gerry Hunt_

_(1934-Present)_

_1953 - 1966 Lancashire Constabulary_

_1967 - 1980 Greater Manchester Police_

_1980 - 1993 London Metropolitan Police_

"Alex, they are real!" Gene informed her in a bewildered look.

Nervously typing into the search box some more former members of staff, the records came up with a photograph of Liz's mother Annie and the team she worked for during the Seventies and early Eighties.

_Annie Cartwright _

_(1957-Present)_

_1974 - 1983 Greater Manchester Police A Division in Salford_

_1984 - 1991 Greater Manchester Police C Division in Hyde_

_1992 - 2006 London Metropolitan Police_

Gene and Sam needed to find these people in connection with the original police brutality complaints with Detective Inspector Alex Drake's help.

DCI Gene Hunt silenced everyone in the main room.

"Okay, you lot we meet those former police officers at The Railway Arms pub, the only former Greater Manchester Police officer we trust to do a statement is Liz's mother Annie Cartwright, whom had a varied curriculum as a police woman." clicking his fingers to gain everyone's attention on the SMART board as the virtual board pens were writing little short notes next to the photo retrieved from the archive under Annie's name. "Fortunately my old man Stephen is helping us with the investigation, as a Superintendent of the Liverpool Police Constabulary; he remembers what policing was like in those bad old days."

DI Alex Drake's turn to reply taking over the briefing "These ex police officers except one female are now dinosaurs when it comes to the blue line, so do be aware and try not to take them too personally."

The Railway Arms pub has changed a lot in 30 years since 1977. The wooden bar equipment has been replaced by lots of metal and chrome. The once drab walls have been painted a light blue with different football team shirts dotted around this pub. Ancient fittings have been thrown out into a skip for the modern equivelent and a widescreen plasma TV showing live Sky Football matches hung in the corner. There were skylights on the ceiling brightening up the inside room considerably. Old fashioned wooden tables got swapped for glass tables and comfy red sofa style chairs accompanying the modern pub.

It was no longer a backstreet boozer.

"What can I get you, man?" The Jamican barman asked with blonde hair in dreadlocks and dressed more like a classy restaurant waiter with a white shirt, black waistcoat, black shoes and trousers. Stanley's clothes were far different from his dad's Nelson who had a bright and colourful dress sense in flowery shirts back in the day.

"Two Diet Cokes please," Gene replied handing DI Maya Roy a pile of change.

"So you're Stephen's son round here then?" Stanley the barman asked trying to make conversation with a now adult Gene Hunt since he and his team were the first customers of the evening.

"Yeah, I remember sitting inside Dad's Cortina with a packet of crisps and some Coke." Gene told him; when he thought of The Railway Arms as some mystery mystical place that only copper adults got to drink in at the time.

"Hang on, I recognise your mate from that hit and run on the way to your CID, aren't you DCI Tyler?" said Stanley pulling some pints still talking to Gene as he pressed the keys on the cash register.

"Yes, I am DCI Sam Tyler and briefly dated DI Maya Roy." Sam told him.

"Well the thing is, Gene and I are reinvestigating some police corruption from er... the 1970s and during the road traffic collision I.. um was attempting to stop a dangerous driver." Sam stuttered before the barman thinks his dad recognises Sam from his father during that time.

"I'm sure my dad, Nelson he knew you? Nah, forget it ting you're not old enough." Stanley explained.

"Nelson, the landlord who used to work here in the Seventies? So he's your dad!" said DCI Sam Tyler shocked by the generational similarities.

"Yeah he's my dad, shall I tell him you're here?" the young Jamican pub landlord asked.

"Of course!" Sam replied in awe over the father and son ran business.

"You can have your drinks on the house, we're mates right man?" Stanley firmly shook Sam and Gene's hands happily.

Maya took Gene and Sam to a table. There was still no sign of Superintendent Stephen Hunt and ex DCI Annie Cartwright.

Stanley returns to the bar area closely followed by his dad Nelson.

"Sam, you've grown mon brav!" Nelson exclaimed.

"Yeah, I'm now a Detective Chief Inspector." Sam replied back.

"I see you've met my son Stanley; he's done a good job of the place." Nelson stated in a local Manchester accent.

The door opened and six people entered.

DSI Stephen Hunt looked towards his grown up son and Sam, his mullet hair a shade of grey and he looked good for his age. Gene's dad broke into a smile feeling proud of his eldest son. He was a slightly older version of Gene yet more modern than his old team. An MP3 player hung round his neck, was playing a Sony PlayStation Portable and he held a mobile phone in his hand; juggling both a game and phone call.

The same could not be said for Stephen's brother ex DCI Gerry Hunt especially after all the smoking and drinking. His face was very wrinkled showing four decades of this.

Annie Cartwright stood next to Gene, her hair is still surprisingly brown and Maya could tell she had a varied police styled National Curriculum as she was one of the first female Detective Constables, groundbreaking for the 1970s. She looked very young for her age of nearly 50, but Sam knew since first seeing her enquire at his mother Ruth's address in connection with a spate of house burglaries at the time; that Annie was like that.

Milton stood behind Annie, his hair and moustache still a gingery brown but he had a few grey hairs.

Chris Skelton's father looking exactly the same as his own son; only he was an older version of DCI Sam Tyler.

"How are you, Sam and Gene? You know I remember you boys, when you were this high!" Annie said pressing her hands towards theirs.

"We're fine, Annie, how have you been?" Sam asked while Gerry was ordering drinks for his old team at the bar area. He went to a table away from the modern police officers with pints of beer, whiskey chasers and glasses of wine.

"I had your colleague Liz Cartwright in Blackpool during '79 after a kidnapper held me at knifepoint, if I didn't run away he would kill me with my unborn baby so it was for the best; so I went back to Manchester when the kidnapper was finally sectioned under the new Mental Health Act 1983. Gene was only a Police Constable aged 18 at the time. Years later I found Gene as a Detective Inspector in the late 80s telling him what had happened when this crazy man stalked my husband Neil in hospital. So Neil and I moved to Newcastle for a fresh start." Annie told Sam about her and Neil being stalked around Manchester before their move to Newcastle in the Nineties.

The boorish and bigoted elderly men were laughing and talking loudly about driving at breakneck speed without wearing any seatbelts in their old unmarked cars.

Gene and Sam had a round of Diet Cokes, barely listening to the old Greater Manchester Police team regale colourful tales of 70s policing. DSI Stephen Hunt and ex DCI Annie Cartwright joined the now grown up boys at their table with colleagues DI Maya Roy and DC Chris Skelton.

"So, Sammy boy and my Eugene, how are you feeling?" Stephen asked.

"Better, now that your son Gene investigated my hit and run incident while I was still in hospital; so how about you?" asked Sam.

"My Eugene worked out the suspect in your road accident? I knew my boy would take after me!" Stephen Hunt replied happily. "Sadly though my brother was never a good copper, it's people like him and his simple goons that were thankfully removed from the Force; when I was still a DCI!" he said out of earshot from his former first CID team.

"Gene, I can't think what your father had to go through as a young police officer in the 70s, no please don't tell me what else they've put him through..." Sam told Gene close to tears.

"Yes, Sam but that's his generation unfortunately and his Detective Inspector Vic Tyler your dad had to walk away from you; after a police assignment against the Morton brothers went skew whiff." Gene answered viewing his and Sam's memories as four and eight year olds in 1973 through adult 21st Century eyes.

"38 years old." Sam told Stephen Hunt showing his GMP warrent card.

"That's right, I remember when you were a shy little boy; can't believe you're a DCI now!" Stephen enquired.

"I'm sorry, for not believing your father at the time, Sam!" Annie whispered quietly. "Gene as a very young police officer in the 1980s, saved me from a knife wielding kidnapper; if I wasn't for Gene; I would be one of those poor people dead. But I trusted Gene even though he was only a teenager then. Tell him I said thank you." Annie stated.

The meet up with Gene's father DSI Stephen Hunt, ex DCI Annie Cartwright as they caught up with Sam, Gene and his now grown up son's colleagues. DSI Stephen Hunt finally gets his former first CID team of old men arrested on suspicion of historical police brutality at Greater Manchester Police Stopford House between 1970 - 1984 for Gene and Sam's colleagues sake.

Maya handed Gene the keys since Sam felt he couldn't drive after watching his fellow Detective Chief Inspector's father face his former Greater Manchester Police CID team laughing about the cruel things they did as coppers. They got justice for the victims, Annie Cartwright senior, Vic Tyler and Chris Skelton's father who didn't know about those until years later.

"And you're a detective!" Vic Tyler laughed jokingly with his only son.


	19. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

The two DCIs walking along in the cool Manchester air as commuters roared past and pedestrians tapped along, kids screeching at the school gates, mothers and fathers bidding farewell in little gaggles. They were summoned to Prelands Primary School after Social Services get involved, in that they are concerned that the children are in danger of emotional harm they may make an application within the 1989 Children Act proceedings for a Section 37 report, possibly with a view to the children being taken into care. This was when Gene asked Greater Manchester County Council's Social Services domestic violence team for further information on the Lancett family. Following a statement from a concerned neighbour, Gene and Sam start the ball rolling on their latest Safeguarding case "We can see if there is any previous history of abuse and our PCSO unit can then get Social Services more involved?" asked DCI Gene Hunt.

"First time I was anonymous but this time I gave my name and rank as I want them to be able to contact us if they need more info." said DCI Sam Tyler heading towards a marked Ford S-Max car.

_The council made me feel like Hyacinth Bouquet objecting to having chavs next door but as I started logging it, seeing it written down in black and white I realised how bad it was, the verbal and physical abuse of their kids._

_"Get out of it you cunt!" (man to ?)_

_"I'll knock you out!" (man towards woman to one of kids)_

_"You stay there whilst I sort this shit out!" (man to both kids)_

_"Move cos you're an idiot!" (man hits woman in front of older child)_

_"Keep this fucker in cos he has shit on his shoe! If you go to fucking school with all this shit on your shoe!..." (Man tells woman what to do, in front of kids)._

_"Fucking get inside now!" (Man to older child)._

_Auntie woman calling younger child "a little wanker" when he got in her way._

_Man numerous times when baby cries shouting at it that it is a "fucking cunt"._

"I fell down some stairs, that is all." replied Laura Lancett walking desperately into the CID room towards Detective Chief Inspector Gene Hunt's office floating around the main hall with computers in cubicles on opposite sides of the room feeling similar to a lost soul.

"A wife beater," said DCI Gene Hunt insistent "I've seen it: the excuses, injuries and submissive behaviours." stood outside his office door gathering the team for an important briefing about the latest domestic violence case.

"This Gary John Lancett only likes women of the stay at home type, but there's a pattern," said Detective Seargent Ray Carling tidying his piles of printed paperwork for once.

"I'll handle this," Gene said in his sure as tone "It's more than being clumsy and falling over something." shrugged the Guv who had more than his fair share of cases of like this.

"Do these injuries seem odd to you?" asked DCI Sam Tyler "PCSO Liz Cartwright witnessed Gary John and Laura fighting yesterday."

"It is possible that he is hurting her." said Detective Constable Chris Skelton "But look at her today. Open your eyes to Social Services taking their eyes off the ball."

It seems domestic violence is left to become a national scandal by Social Services, especially as DCI Gene Hunt grew up in a time when this was seen as socially acceptable then. His and Sam's 1970s childhood gave them specific insights into broken homes and it's crime status.

Gene confronted a social worker about the incident at the Lancett's home privately inside his office.

"How did Laura Lancett get hurt?" Gene asked firmly.

"Laura, just told you," she replied snootily "Fell down the stairs."

"Before or after Gary John argued?" putting down his mug on the desk.

"Two of my team members saw what happened at her house, I have a statement from a neighbour to prove otherwise. Liz in her capacity as PCSO followed you." Gene confessed with his full towering height rosing over his Dell desktop computer making eye contact facing her.

"DCI Eugene Hunt, you better take a step back and stick to policing because you are crossing a Social Services line!" intimidating the police officer of 24 years experience. "This conversation is over. Stay away from my cases and clients!" she snapped at the Boss.

Gene asks again "Did Gary John, push her? I don't believe you."

"No!" the female social worker shouted.

"And I don't care if magical rainbows are flying out of your briefcase, you just do your job properly as a social worker," said Gene.

DCI Gene Hunt would get to the bottom of this, there was only one option left. He and Sam would go to Mrs. Lancett herself and convince her to speak the truth about the domestically violent situation she seems to be trapped in.

Gene was already first on the scene headed off to the Lancetts home, his beloved gold Ford Mondeo Titanium X parked out front. Sam steeled himself and went to the door to help his colleague. He was about to knock for Gene when his fist froze at the sounds of screaming.

"Get away from me!" yelled Mrs. Lancett.

It allows DCI Sam Tyler to pick his way past two kid's bikes left lying on the path, though a football does catch his foot and make his heart leap into his throat. During other call outs on domestic violence and child protection, when if victim and perpetrator have to meet up to hand the child over for contact there's a risk the child could get caught in the crossfire of any violence.

At the sound of something breaking, Sam stepped back with the red enforcer tool and forced the door inwards; following the sounds to the lounge room where he and PCSO Cartwright witnessed a similar row during the other day. The boss was there, hands out in front of the terrified wife who was a wreck as Gary John was brandishing a kitchen knife. Sam carefully stepped over the broken lamp on the carpet flooring to help Gene make an arrest.

"DCI Tyler, what are you doing here?" said Gene still in his protective police clothing.

Laura Lancett was trembling, crying; but could see her violent husband still holding the knife. SOCO surveyed the scene for forensics and flash beep clicked photos for evidence on their Canon bridge digital cameras. Her arm was bleeding from a fresh cut.

"You what?" said Gary John from behind the two officers. "Are you off your head?"

Gene and Sam had seen enough. They turned from Mrs. Lancett and moved towards Gary John "Gary John, I'm arresting you under the suspicion of Domestic Violence, Criminal Damage, assault and Grevious Bodily Harm." Gene helped Sam finish the caution off "You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say; may be given in evidence when later relied on in court."

"Oh, now I know you're coppers who lost it!" said Gary John "Have you by chance noticed I'm sick of 'er and the retarded kids kicking off!"

"Defending herself from you, no doubt." Gene was busy handcuffing the large male reaching for his arms. Pulling back resisting arrest from the senior Detective Chief Inspector's grip. "Get your sodding hands off me, you daft gits! You don't know what you're doing!" attempting to discredit the arresting officers. The man was dangerous and known for scuffling with visiting police officers, when Gene was glancing over to the corner of the lounge; Mrs. Lancett was sat in a crumpled sobbing heap.

"It's alright, Mrs. Lancett." said Sam working with his fellow DCI and approaching the man's wife with slow footsteps. "You're safe now. We're here to arrest him."

Sam watched as Gene donned some white latex gloves and put the bloodied knife into a resealable evidence bag.

"Get this man into the arrest van," Gene said ushering two uniformed police officers away from the crime scene. He put an arm around the battered woman sat on the beige carpet. He stood there with her huddled into Gene's shoulder until the silence was broken by an ambulance siren which arrived.

"Who called the ambulance?" asked DCI Sam Tyler, still confused by the commotion.

"I did," said Gene looking at his Apple I-Phone.

The paramedics referred to Gary John's wife by her full names. The process was one that was very familiar to DCI Gene Hunt. The ambulance team and Lancett family have been through this many times before.

As the ambulance pulled away with an injured Mrs. Laura Lancett inside, DCIs Sam Tyler and Gene Hunt sit together on the doorstep of the Lancett family home; discussing when they first noticed Gary John's incidents towards his wife dating back to the eldest child's birth in 2003.

"He hurts her," said Gene "Gary John's been doing it for years. Those things get too much for his missus to handle; he threw his younger son with special needs Luke down the stairs on a few occasions and cuts his wife up. She'll be fine with it for a while thinking he's changed and then low behold; Gary John starts up again." noticing patterns "Social Services put them on these parenting assessments; sometimes they work, other times it's a failure. After the incidents against his disabled child, I tried to get the three little uns into foster care, but their social worker covers up the safeguarding wolves and miss out bits of Gary John's CRB references."

"I'm sorry, Boss that's awful!" feeling gutted for his mate as a police officer now that things were starting to make sense during this latest child safeguarding call out after Social Services informed Greater Manchester Police during a visit to Prelands Primary School for a meeting on the eldest Lancett child who was only four rising five years old.

"I'd rather fight for these beaten kids, women, men and uphold my reputation knowing I've at least tried to make a difference." Gene sighed and looked at DCI Sam Tyler.

"The kids and their mum need professional help; nowadays a disabled child is nothing to be ashamed of." Sam explained. "I don't know how Laura Lancett kept it quiet inbetween our visits."

"I'm hoping the Crown Prosecution Service won't be so lenient this time round and not be reeled in by social services girl talk gossip." Gene nodded determined to finish the work he and Sam started earlier on the Lancett domestic violence case.

"That was shit parenting in the 80s as well. I reported a kid to Social Services that was treated like that, when I was just a baby faced Detective Constable." DCI Gene Hunt recalled one of his very first Child Protection assignments from 1984 "Many children were scared of their abusive parents, schools could get away with breaking safeguards and children had little or no choice in anything in those days." thinking things had moved on since his 1970s-1980s childhood. Increased awareness of abuse has meant that children who speak up about being abused are believed in a way they weren't years ago.

"Will they talk to the EYFS nursery teacher? What we heard is so incredibly bad I can't believe the older child doesn't let something slip and I bet he is fucking and cunting in front of the teachers or other kids. He will stand out like a sore thumb, poor baby." said DC Chris Skelton who went white as a sheet when the audio equipment picks up on the heated arguements inside the Hulme address. "Tell me why Social Services forewarn people in suspected abuse cases, that they are coming out?"

"-I just thought…they're two kids brought up in an abusive household, Gene. I thought you'd care more." The police knew it was standard proceedure to inform Social Services if children had witnessed Domestic Violence in ALL cases, this Gene doesn't have a problem with as he believed the safety of children is paramount, what Sam is shocked at (and this isn't the fault of social workers) is the lack of training social workers receive in respect of domestic violence.

"Because I'm a shining bad example of what can happen to kids who take the abusive smacks off their old man's violent brother? Oh, how terrible, you might only end up a D.C.I.. Someone save the children!" joked DCI Gene Hunt in shock at what he's seen in the Lancett household. This is the exact reason Gene wants social workers to receive better training in dealing with domestic violence. They have very little understanding of it. Charges are usually dropped by the CPS as they have determined the victim will not make a credible witness.

"For God's sake! Listen to yourself. I know you want Reuben Paul, for DSI Harry Woolf, or your own pride or whatever. But we are talking about a woman's life here, Gene. An innocent woman, with three kids under 5 plus a dad known for GBH and violent family relatives with form for child abuse." stated DCI Sam Tyler who wanted his mate, a fellow Detective Chief Inspector to focus on the job at hand.

"...say again, eight-six-zero?"

"Laura Lancett discharged herself out of the hospital this morning. Against medical advice, mind you."

"Why weren't we told?" After 1998 Data Protection Act regulations prevented St. James's NHS from revealing the reason for Laura Lancett's admission into Accident and Emergency after Gary John battered Laura in front of their three boys when the police and the hospital reported the incident to Social Services that night. DCI Gene Hunt keeps logging the incidents, preferably recording each one as then there is proof and it is not his word against theirs.

"…thanks. Out. No, wait! Send a marked car over to her house, would you? Just to watch for a bit."

"Will do, Boss. Over and out."

"Lancett! You're arrested under the suspicion of Domestic Violence." DCI Gene Hunt was reading Mr. Lancett the caution and his rights through the letterbox, since no-one was answering the door. The two DCIs hear domestic violence happening right this minute through the letterbox.

"From what I know of Social Services, that wouldn't surprise me, either to just send them on a course then sign them off whilst the behaviours continue apace. I was amazed the last time they came out to realise the younger child wasn't put in some sort of nursery in the day-time, to keep her safe and in a better environment at least a few hours a day. But she remains at home all day. I know from the constant screaming she is there." stated DCI Gene Hunt since the younger child's behaviour was very much like his younger brother Robert, a possible behavioural disorder within this child making her development dodgy. "Who would threaten to knock out a 2, 3 or 4 year old toddler?" said DCI Sam Tyler standing behind Gene's 6 ft tall and heavily built frame.

The door swings open. Gary-John glares at him, eyes slitted in rage, every inch a man interrupted in the middle of something big. "What?"

Gene draws himself up, and sticks his hands in his pockets. He can't handcuff him. "Just passing. Thought I'd look in on your missus, seeing as she discharged herself out of hospital."

"Bugger off, Hunt!"

"Don't think so, mate." He looks past him, to where Laura is leaning against the wall. She pulls her hand away from her face quickly, as if it was never there, holding her cheek. But he sees the way it's shaking, and the livid fingerprints of the blow she just took. "You alright, love?"

She nods, and swallows. "Fine." Laura is forced to cover up for her thuggish husband when Gene checks for the warning flags of domestic violence, takes photographs for the Scenes of Crime officers and puts blue police tape cordoned around the Hulme council house premises.

There are tears in her eyes. He looks her over, and sees the remnants of the injuries he saw when he visited her in hospital. Sketch lines of scars, under fresh bruises, and a day-old cut on her lip. She looks like she's having trouble standing straight, so the bastard obviously worked her ribs this time. "What more could I have done? He caught me trying to call police and ripped the phone line from the wall."

"You heard her."

He looks to the side. Laura looks horrified, but he can't help that. "You got somewhere to go, love?" asked Gene gently handing her a glossy Greater Manchester Police domestic violence brochure that also had all the local contact numbers for Women's Aid, Shelter, YMCA and NSPCC.

"I – I can't. The boys." she stammered in terror over her children's violent deadbeat father frightening her into submission again like normally. Gene advises her to escape immediately.

"Take them with you." advised DCI Gene Hunt who had experience of domestic violence call outs as he grew up himself with the same situation when his uncle used to kick seven types of shit out on him, Robert and Stuart as children. Babies being in an abusive environment are affected and there are studies that show the trauma affects their development; since cases like this only go one way: worse, can be left with lifelong disabilities and/or scars. "Just take paperwork, medicines, ID, small toys and clothes into a suitcase for now." He had nearly 24 years of experience as a police officer. "Get on to Greater Manchester Council's housing team, state you have three dependents (one with special needs) and they will find you emergency accommodation for the night, hopefully."

She's feeling trapped, her scared eyes flicking between the two of them. Gene's seen that look before too, long before he joined the force in 1983. His step mother's eyes, knowing she should get her half sons away from this, but too frightened to move. No money, no options. No guts. They'd been ripped out a long time before.

"My social worker has been brilliant - was already involved due to my younger son Luke's disability...but CAFCASS seem more swayed by his victim mentality.." sobbed Laura Lancett frightened that she won't be believed should her domestic violence problems go to retrial.

The only words they know are rotes and procedures, spouted at the appropriate moments.

"I saw you pin little Luke against the kitchen wall, because you hit one of the boys for being a typical kid. Is that what this is about?" questioned PCSO Liz Cartwright firmly with her brown hair, smart uniform, handcuffs and black Motorola police radio overhearing the incident when she was on the beat in Manchurian Way Estate with it's array of drab council housing. "And yes, you could lose your children if Social Services deem you to be a risk. It's your choice."

"About the abuse of the kids, and their mother." Unfortunately, it's the court system that lets it down. What's the point of the police arresting the same offender over and over and over if he only gets repeated cautions or the CPS drop the case because it's not in the public interest or there's not enough evidence (her word against his)? The law is full of stupid loopholes in these cases as Gene knew all too well even though domestic violence should be more understood than it was when he was a child in the 1970s years ago. "However it seems that with many of the old school social workers; I have come across, both as a victim and within my professional work, they have no real experience or training in this field and so they have the very ignorant view and place the blame on the victim parent." snarled DCI Gene Hunt profiling a report filled full of lies by CAFCASS about Gary John portraying him as a firm but fair father with difficult children and one whom has additional needs.

"Oh and don't get me started on contact with violent dads and mums, I would agree with you most of the time, these arses made their choice when they started beating on the children's mum or dad!" when DCIs Gene Hunt, Sam Tyler and their colleagues were stood inside the Crown Court awaiting Gary John's trial for several counts of domestic violence against wife Laura and child abuse on his three children under 5.

Gary John at present is only allowed supervised access under court order pending final hearing and psychologist report.

_Gary John 46 is the ex husband to Laura Lancett 20 and father of three sons Luke aged 4, Levi 2 and baby David 6 months. He has history of domestic violence, Grevious Bodily Harm, assault and abuses children of eight and under. In view of the history given by Greater Manchester County Council's Child Protection team; it is proven he should only see his children at a family contact centre for Mrs. Lancett's safety. The psychologist has diagnosed Borderline Personality Disorder, ADHD and schizophrenia in view of his early development given by his old social workers. _

"I'll bet you a tenner and a bottle of Tizer; Gary's done this before. Usually it starts in childhood, things like torturing younger siblings and such. Unexplained incidents that maybe the parents don't want to think could possibly be their child. Countless studies have proven this to be a reliable similarity across all these kinds of cases." Sam carried on with Gene nodding.

"We buy toys for the local children's homes, special schools and domestic violence charities." said DCI Gene Hunt handing the Police Community Support Officers some money; the table was covered in a pile of brightly coloured toys. Alongside these causes, Greater Manchester Police also annually fundraise for BBC Children in Need; watching Terry Wogan's telethons since introduction in 1980; three years before Gene started his career in the police service.

Not that Gene was quite so young these days, but still he was always a handsome bloke. He was looking like a eighteen year old police constable again, circa 1983. Former WPC Phyllis Dobbs was a grandmother, living alone and not that many years since she went into retirement and she was just, simply, old. Phyllis rolled her eyes at the boy (always, always a boy, no matter the decade) and let him chauffer her, because that was first class sympathy from DCI Gene Hunt.

He had been a wet behind the ears PC then in '83, and his rival a dashing DC with more money and his own motor in to the bargain. His shoes splash through puddles on the pavement, surrounded by building work and signs of regeneration.

"And this used to be such a nice neighbourhood," he mumbles, getting up from the pavement and heading towards his car.

Aldcliffe Road looks the same as it always has, more or less unchanged since he was a little boy. A new coat of paint here and there, a few upgraded windows but that's about it. It's eerie sometimes. He can close his eyes and be seven years old in 1972 again. He'd been twelve. Stu had been fifteen it was 1977, and had taken to disappearing early on Saturday mornings. He caught him once, sneaking back into the house before their dad woke up, and finally demanded to know what was going on.

Gene may have went to church on a Sunday when he was too young to know better; but that went out the front door along with whatever childhood his old man's brother managed to wrangle out of him, Robert and Stu.

"Don't know if it can be fixed, Dad. An old mark like that." said Gene gesturing towards the door that his father's brother once broken Stu's hand on.

"Best leave it then, eh? I wouldn't want t'cause more damage." said DSI Stephen Hunt.

The Grand Theatre hasn't been grand for thirty years; since it was last renovated in the Seventies. These days they try to maintain the illusion, but nothing can hide the flaking, faded paint and threadbare seats. It doesn't help that it's used less as a theatre, more as an underworld boxing club now. Gene looks down at the ring from the top of the stairs. Its sagging ropes and patchy surface conceals the stories of ten thousand dancing feet, countless broken faces, any amount of shattered dreams. The boxing club has looked the same for as long as he's been coming here. He'd paid a couple of visits when he was a lad, mainly to look for Stu. It has that same smell of sweat and testosterone, the same dirty cream walls, and he swears those are bloodstains on the floor.

"It's actually your tenants we wanted to ask about, love," Gene began, downing a swig of tea and daintily crunching into a pink wafer. "Ooh, these are lovely," he smiled again, letting the Gene Genie do his magic on what the Lancett family were like as Mrs. Helen Castle's tenants.

Mrs. Helen Castle bustled into the kitchen and came back a few moments later with a country flower-patterned tea set. "I don't seem to have anything around other than pink wafers, is that all right?" Mrs. Castle seemed concerned she wasn't being a good hostess.

"It's like you read my mind, darling," Gene smiled. "Those are my old favourites."

"The Lancett children seem to have some form of behavioural problems, even though they are all five and under; their dad is an abusive guy that plays his hi-fi system enough to drown out the neighbourhood with crap dubstep music, keeps strange hours and it's his wife I feel sympathy for slaving over seeing to the babies 24/7 with no respite." Mrs. Castle replied to the two police officers busy writing down her statement "The mum is a lovely girl, who's been down on her chips unfortunately recently with Gary John's violence towards her and the three kiddies."

"I've had one of them 1980s Sanyo digital clocks with a radio since my first days in the police service," Gene nodded. "I wouldn't ever want to replace it. Still wake up with it every morning, it's so reliable."

The senior Detective Chief Inspector always had a soft spot for women old enough to be his late mum, as he never got to know her sadly dying after Gene's birth in 1965. He still has his stepmum who is Stephen Hunt's second wife, once they were settled into Manchester.

"That's very nice of you to say, Mrs. Castle. You've been a great help to us as well, and I'm very grateful for it." Gene beamed and set his cup down on the tray. "I'm afraid we have to get back to the station now, but thank you very much for the lovely tea."

"It was better to wait for them to split CID into two units like I knew they were going to and then take that position instead." said DCI Gene Hunt remembering when the old Regional Crime Squad were first disbanded somewhere in the early 90s when he was still only in his twenties from DCI Litton's legacy. "Policing is sitting at a desk waiting for a nice warrant and loading up!"

_"Oh, but it is you, Hunt," DCI Derek Litton replies. "You and your perfect little coppers."_

_Gene is still silent, now looking at him with something in his eyes he can't quite make out. He doesn't care, though, and Litton continues. "Everything by the book, everything by the rules, you're just like bloody robots!" he's on the shouting side of loud._

_Litton snorts. "Oh, I'm sorry little police princess. If this is a bit too much for you…"_

_Cartwright is looking at them as they disappear beyond the door in the corridor, the Kit-Kat bar still clutched in her hands. It's a chunky one, he notices. Oh the utter, utter bastard._

_He drags Gene all the way to the gents'. He scares the young PC off with a glare and a snarl and locks the door behind them._

_"All right!" he exclaims, turning around._

_Gene is looking at him with a disapproving frown, his arms crossed over his chest, it's probably his standard defence pose._

_"What're you lookin' at, Genie Hunt?" he growls._

_Gene sighs and rolls his eyes. "I'm eagerly waiting for you to get to the point of this little scene," he says._

_He narrows his eyes at him, taking a few steps and invading his personal space, menacingly. "You," he says, very slowly, "stay away from my team."_

_Gene Hunt squints up at him. "Give me a good reason why I should."_

_"Oh, give up," he snorts. "I know all about your little scheme."_

_Gene Hunt gives him a long look. "Oh, really?" he says. "Then why don't you tell me all about my 'little scheme', since it seems I don't know what the hell you're talking about."_

_"Oh, you know perfectly well," Litton says. "You're sniffing around my officers!"_

_"Tell that to all the other female officers who've worked with you and filed a complaint."_

_"Bunch of sissies," DCI Derek Litton snorts into his glass._

_"Tyler may be a little young there sir, but he does the job and he does it well. I'd rather take his word over you poser's any day!" said DI Gene Hunt._

_Gene Hunt's a progressive young man, plus is he an open minded sort. He takes the opportunity to address DCI Derek Litton's team while Cartwright and PC Sam Tyler are safely out of their way._

_"Whichever one of you smart Alec's who put the pile of saucy lads magazines on Cartwright's desk, shift 'em. If I hear another funny remark 'bout her bra or any other bits of her clothin' you'll be hung out on the Super's flag and I am gonna 'ave to deal with his tight arse naggin' on 'cos one of you pillocks has made her blub." DI Gene Hunt firmly stated with his trademark mullet and leather boots._

_"Mrs. Cartwright might be a female, she might 'ave bristols, she might even be better lookin' an' smellin' than the lot of you put together but I will not 'ave one of my officers treated like meat 'cos you lot think it's funny to see how far you can push her. Are we clear?" finished the baby faced Detective Inspector addressing the older RCS department upstairs in the old A Division room._

_A chorus of disgruntled "Yes Boss's" goes up and Gene nods before turning away._

_"Force Litton into retirement, I might get to be DCI, demote some of his men, fire the rest."_

"Derek Litton was later found guilty of corruption and tampering with evidence! These were exactly the kind of officers I wanted kicked off the Force; because I can't stand bullying and procedure being broken." explained DCI Gene Hunt as he arrives at Ruth Tyler's terraced house; it took them back to the days they spent there together playing when they were children.

A woman in her sixties, dressed soberly, but elegantly, opens the door. Despite her tidy appearance, her eyes are heavy, and circled in black bags. "Yes?" she asks, politely.

He averts his eyes, apparently he never thought this far. "I- Uh," he clears his throat. "Mrs. Tyler, I'm DCI Hunt, and we had reports of some pupils known to Social Services who attend Prelands Primary School bothering your neighbours, parental complaints and bullying younger children."

Her face clears at that, and she smiles softly at him. "Of course!" she exclaims. "Sam talks a lot about you. Come in, please."

She takes a step backwards, letting him in. They stand for a moment in the entrance, looking at each other, and he knows why he's here.

"Would you like some tea?" she asks, finally, and he nods.

DCI Gene Hunt observes Mrs. Tyler carefully, no ring on her finger, and the photos scattered all over the living room show only a child here, a teenager there, an adult in the one next to the pot of flowers. The same person in every picture, peering out from the glossy paper in different snapshots of a life. One son. Sam Tyler.

There are photos on the night table, some of Mrs. Tyler, another of a child wearing a police helmet. There's a Manchester United banner hanging from the wardrobe. There is a police Corgi Ford Cortina Mk3 GXL still inside the original box and other one is a Rover 3500 SD1.

He sniggers in the silence of the room. "A Manchester United red. I should have known."

Some CD cases are piled next to the hi-fi. Bowie, T. Rex, Sweet. Gene looks at the artwork.

"You and my son keep being called to the school in your capacities as police officers. These two ten to eleven year old boys frequently picked on a sensitive Reception aged child about his mummy; they give the neighbours grief and when adults discipline them, 'the I know my rights brigade' have a lot to answer for." said Ruth Tyler who lost count of the incidents at Prelands Primary School her son and his best mate Gene were often summoned to as police officers.

Gene replied "You know, Mrs. Tyler; maybe a primary school who allow their Year 6 pupils to pick on practically toddlers should face legal action, since their anti bullying policy is useful as a chocolate teapot!" dunking a Bourbon into his tea and eating it with the chocolatey taste.

"No point in letting the school deal with these incidents on-site; they had so many chances to fail well behaved pupils and still letting those two boys run amok." stated Ruth Tyler who kept diaries of the bullying incidents at Prelands Primary School, secret photographs and audio recordings.

"Mum, we'll now be taking legal action on these little hooligans, as you've played this right; it'll lead to a much bigger investigation at Prelands Primary School." said DCI Sam Tyler clearing the tea set into the kitchen through a serving hatch.

"You're a good boy, Gene Hunt, and good coppers." Ruth smiled as she watched her grown up son walk out of her home with his fellow colleague and childhood friend.

Sam wanted to wade in and stop the fight immediately. Wanted to give those little bullies the trouncing they deserved but he held himself in check. For all Gene occasionally joked about how sensitive Sam was he knew the world was a hard place. He'd grown up without a father and taken his share of school playground teasing for it.

Gene snorts at the negligent lunchtime playground supervisor. "What do you think this is, the 1970s? This is the bloody 21st Century, wake up and smell the coffee!"

"Who are you?" The boy shrieked. He heard the doors creak open from the school's Sixties designed premises with shabby paint on the windows, piles of old disused 1980s Acorn BBC Micro computers and broken or well used equipment near the school's industrial bins.

"Excuse me!" A woman cried out. "Put that child down, Sir."

Turning, without letting go of the hooligan, Sam looked coolly at the older woman in the doorway. "Police." He said coldly. "Have you been watching these two boys assaulting the younger one? If they're 10 or 11 they can be held criminally responsible for any bullying."

"Well, we prefer to deal with bullying internally within school premises." she huffed.

"Well?" Sam inquired.

"Boys will be boys after all." She replied.

"I think we should all go inside," Sam declared. "I find that I'll be needing to use your telephone."

"Um," the woman looked flustered.

"Now," Sam said sharply.

He discovered the woman was in fact the headteacher of Prelands Primary School when DCI Sam Tyler sits the two boys on a row of plastic school chairs; let her know what it feels like when Ofsted and police threaten legal action against their inadequate anti bullying policies.

"Chris?" He asked. "Could you and Ray come down to Prelands Primary School? And bring along a couple of PCSOs and a marked panda. No, I think this is something that our team should handle together. Favour for the boss that he doesn't need to know about. You understand?"

He walked back into the outer office and leaned against the counter. Crossing his arms across his chest he glared at the four in front of him. "Hey Mister," the second boy started.

"You can't touch me, I know my rights!" one of the bullying children taunted towards Detective Chief Inspector Sam Tyler who knew about primary schools with red flags for Ofsted to mark under Special Measures especially with their lax attitudes towards bullying and safeguarding.

Chris, Gene, Liz and Ray arrived a few minutes later and after a quick conference with Sam decided on the best way of handling things. Ray, Gene, Liz entered the office with Chris and Sam following behind trying to hide their own smiles. "Mrs. Parker," Chris said firmly as he helped her to her feet and then handcuffed her decisively. "You are under arrest on suspicion for the neglect, failure to prevent bullying and abuse of children under your care." then he read her the caution "Anything you do or say may be given in evidence which you later rely on in court."

"What?" She shrieked angrily.

"Letting two bigger boys beat up a five year old in the school playground while you look on is a crime." Sam informed her with an evil grin. "You're under arrest."

DCI Gene Hunt stepped forward and grabbed each boy by the collar. "I'm taking you boys home and we're going to explain to your slag chav mummies about how it's their responsibility to raise good, upstanding sons and not little hooligans. If they can't manage it because they're too busy having babies, watching _Jeremy Kyle_; spreading lies and gossip to each other then we can always bring in the social workers, get a child in need assessment and send you little deviants off to a children's home. Do you understand me?"

"Yes sir," the boys mumbled as Gene pulled them out to his car.

The police officers speak to the boys auntie and Libby knew they have a history of dangerous allegations. It is revealed that her own sister as a mum has been facing this since they were seven years of age. There was a red head woman who wept "What junk have my nephews done, this time at school?" filled with dread over answering the door to two Detective Chief Inspectors. "My goodness! I was expecting silly white lies and kiddie squabbles, not big dangerous whoppers!" said Libby Arndale at aged 20 years old, born in late 1986 or early 1987.

_In September 200X, 11 year old claimed that my sisters best friend who has babysat him regularly for his whole life threw him down the stairs. It (obviously) launched weeks worth of investigation and pain until he eventually admitted after weeks of pain for everyone involved that it was not true. _

"Someday the boys will tell a lie that will ruin somebody's life. They're not welcome to my home and I will not let any of my children spend time with their nephews individually." said Libby Arndale answering DCI Gene Hunt and Sam Tyler's questions to help piece together the full picture of behavioural patterns to see whether the two boys known for bullying younger children at Prelands Primary School would have mental health issues left unchecked.

Junior DCI Sam Tyler empathised "Your sister needs to take this seriously and get some therapy for these boys. They are going to get into serious trouble one day if it carries on like this."

Gene remembers the times he had to investigate mental health cases since he is the more senior of the two "I, too, would be very wary of this. Their behaviour is very alarming and I hope you implore your sister to get help for them. The lies they are telling could destroy someone's life. I've seen it happen and it was a nightmare."

"I think that responsible adults do need to be aware that they are vulnerable to misinterpretations on their part, and that my nephews are vulnerable to misunderstandings or fabrications, whether conscious or subconscious. So extra care needs to be taken around them." said Libby Arndale heartbroken by the damage their bullying of younger children and false allegations have caused in the local community. This incident of a tiny five year old toddler being caught in their playground fight is the last straw since the playground supervisors didn't be aware about the boys going out of sight from supervising adults and notify their teachers.

"Could it be that something serious has happened to your nephews, and no one has recognised or believed them and this is it playing out?" asked DCI Sam Tyler gently handling the questions with a sensitive approach; while DCI Gene Hunt is e-mailing, scanning diary entries and ringing around people who are involved with little Paul and Carl Arndale as they're between 10 and 11.

"It may be that your nephews tells one of his lies to someone who will report the (non) incident to the police or Social Services and an innocent party could find themselves falsely accused of hurting the child (or worse!)" warned DCI Gene Hunt who was trying to battle with the system on getting Libby's nephews the important but vital mental health help they need; when kids consistently lie like this, especially when the lies are so outrageous they are bound to be caught out, it's often a response to early trauma.

"If I were to have these children around, it would be with the understanding that one of the parents would be present 100% of the time and that they would not to be left unattended with anyone." stated DCI Sam Tyler who was stapling the diary entries in chronological order.

A statement from an anonymous neighbour has the following written down:

_I am amazed you still have one on one time with them (i.e boys were at your house today)_

_That kind of thing literally ruins lives - it could have broke your marriage, your husband could potentially have lost his job, the list is endless. _

_At 10 and 11 they know FULL WELL the consequences of such outrageous lies. I am right that one of their lies will ruin someone's life and you need to protect adults in positions of trust._

"All behaviour is communication. Your nephews need professional help to find out why they're behaving this way. If your sister has other children, she could end up having them all younger ones taken off her; if he lies about her or his dad." continued DCI Gene Hunt wearing a blue collared top "Paul and Carl seem to be suffering from mental health issues. It needs to be addressed before they become a risk to themselves and others."

Libby Arndale grew up with the family being close knitted and is used to spending time with all of their child relatives in each others houses through intergenerational lives. "They would still maintain it happened and my sister Tracy was afraid of other people (school, friends, and acquaintances) hearing untrue stories and contacting Social Services or police..."

"How many times have they done it? It might be a good idea now to print written records (don't tell your sister) in case it's needed in the future. Write down dates, who was blamed, what actually happened." said PCSO Liz Cartwright who came to join her two bosses on this case with the Prelands Primary School bullying pupils; leading to a much larger problem than originally thought. "It's very important to make sure people like his GP and school have on record that he's making repeated disclosures like this. So sorry, how horrible for all of you." she sympathised with Libby Arndale, since Liz Cartwright had two young nephews herself being an auntie.

DCI Gene Hunt gets a cross updated email: _It's on record with all professionals involved. It is now on a Social Services care plan sheet just in case, Paul and Carl's social workers need to see the patterns of behaviour._

He types back: _Great, glad to know this has now been attached to their files._

He speaks to their Year 5 and 6 teachers who know of a much younger child heading in the same direction as the Arndale boys "Sadly our school is teaching a child like this at the moment, said child is younger than Tracy's boys; but is heading the same direction." shaking her head in disapproval since this problem of false allegations is increasingly becoming more common amongst their more troubled pupils. This lady is 11 year old Paul Arndale's teacher who had wispy blonde hair, was passionate about teaching and mentoring their difficult pupils.

"Some of this 4 year old's fantasies are harmless but confirmed untrue (along the lines of being selected to appear on tv talent shows etc) but some are damaging to other people and potentially even careers." said the older Year 5 teacher who knew of this little toddler becoming a liability and it's already starting to show "an unfounded allegation like this is one of my biggest fears. This poor toddler will end up alone or in care at this rate." referring to the late Nursery, Reception age pupil without breaching confidentiality on his name; giving the 42 year old Chief Inspector something to follow the patterns towards with on the Arndale boys. "Can you imagine if Libby Arndale didn't have CCTV? For fucks sake, her children could have been removed had this escalated." furious at what the school's two infamous bullies have done.

"Are you not concerned about them going to scouts and accusing the guy who runs it?" asked a curious teaching assistant who overheard their conversation "I think the advice to log all behaviours is good."

"Oh, wow!" exclaimed DCI Gene Hunt "I would cut all after school activities where parents couldn't be present. They're a walking liability; these boys could accuse anyone at scouts. If I were their Daddy, these kids wouldn't be going anywhere near an after school club if I couldn't be present to supervise and encourage good behaviour!" tutting in embarrassment towards leaving untrained after school activity leaders to care for people with mental health needs.

"At a time when the default (usually and quite rightly) is to believe children's accounts of harm done to them, it's incredible that any school would accept the risk these poor children pose. I realise exclusion is a last resort, but just can't see how they can afford to take a chance on them cutting a swathe through the entire staff!" said the Deputy Head ranting as she writes yet another incident form on pupils Paul and Carl Arndale towards the younger Year R child.

The last thing Prelands Primary School actually want are months of investigations from Ofsted, Social Services and stress or worry. Unfortunately sometimes unfounded slurs from their pupils, stick.

"The school are fully aware of the history we have with my two. They go to a very small primary school and they have the resources to keep an eye on the boys at playtime, lunch and break. There is always an adult present." Tracy Arndale described as she felt a chilling horror that her two boys may have to attend a special needs school for psychological reasons in a few months time.

"This really is very disturbing. It's one thing when a 4 year old fibs that there's a dinosaur living in his room, but when an 10 and 11 year old are accusing people of serious violence, you know there is something drastically wrong." said DC Chris Skelton who wanted the boys mum to think carefully about the nature of today's incident towards a five year old toddler whom attends the same primary school and their historical false allegations towards adults in positions of trust.

"We are carefully documenting some of the incidents (if you haven't had time already) in order to support anyone else through false allegations they might make in the future. I don't say this as a means to condemn or attack your boys, but more to assist any future innocent person in putting false allegations to rest promptly." replied PCSO Liz Cartwright who is updating Mrs. Tracy Arndale who meant well with her handling of the situation as their mum with breaking news.

"I wouldn't be prepared to be that ONE adult supervising him in school, putting my career at risk." yelled the irate neighbour who sent her statement anonymously to Greater Manchester Police "I also hope his bloody mum accompanies him to after school activities such as scouts. She shouldn't be putting the scout leaders at risk." trying to beat up a well meaning parent verbally for daring to let her sister Libby's nephews attend the normal childhood clubs. "So you would be happy to have a child in your home who could potentially get one of your family or adult in authority an unwarranted criminal record?!" shouting at the police officers present there.

"Calm down, we know you're upset about the situation." reasoned PCSO Liz Cartwright and gets the neighbour to pause for a minute.

"My stupid nephew is heading this way... he is 5 though. Told school his mum beat him because he had a bruise from falling off a swing at the park. Cue to endless nosy Social Services visits. I am waiting for this to escalate but his dear mother doesn't do much about it. She's too scared and weak to say anything to him now otherwise he says I will tell school you hit me..."

"I can understand your frustration towards these two boys, but being angry isn't going to help." replied DCI Sam Tyler "The five year old should have been dismissed immediately; as he is too young for his account to be taken into consideration; particularly if there was history of bizarre behaviour and accusing people of things…"

"But the root cause needs to be tackled with both professional help, and the unconditional love of their family." seriously intoned by DCI Gene Hunt who was watching CCTV footage of the boys at Prelands Primary School. "Unfortunately, the Government now allow children who are still toddler age into primary schools to be around pupils that have a hidden history of abusing 0-5's."

A statement on a technique used by Paul and Carl Arndale's dad is included in the paperwork.

_In my opinion I would explain very clearly the situation from your perspective. I'd let both boys back to play but for a short time and to be honest I'd tell them I have put a baby monitor in the room where there is playing or the garden or whatever so I'll know exactly what's going on and there will be a recording of what's happening (and I would do it). Just like the driveway has a camera. I'd let boys come and do a supervised activity (everyone colouring in in the kitchen with you there) for half an hour. If they can manage that, next time it's playing for an hour with you popping in and out, and the camera set up, if they manage that, then I praise them and increase it._

"I would also be telling the police the same otherwise where does it stop? You can't dismiss it immediately because there are adults out there who will target children such as this because they know the chances are they won't be believed. Accusations still have to be investigated appropriately. As much for the adult involved as anything - a proper investigation clears a name much better than a 'oh well, that kid lies' does." said DS Ray Carling recalling a Protection Against False Allegations seminar from a couple of months ago "Your sister Tracy needs to take her head out of the sand and actually parent her own children instead of pawning their dangerous ass off on anyone that would have them." in his usual plain clothes and permed hairstyle.

"Tracy is totally responsible for these situations too because given her sons history and the fact they're compulsive dangerous liars, she should not be leaving them alone with other adults. One wrong word from them and your reputation and life, and that of your children, could be in ruins." DCI Sam Tyler added seriously in his expertise as Gene's younger Chief Inspector.

"I hug my autistic child suggest how horrid it is to feel whatever and we all feel a bit silly when it happens, but it's normal. Let's get you cleaned up and get an ice pack (if fallen) and watch a cartoon together until you get over the shock of a meltdown, it does give you a fright doesn't it? Any trouble she maintains verbally is ignored and she is shown love and compassion for the meltdown." said DCI Gene Hunt on how he manages an autistic fourteen year old daughter from Elaine Dowling Hunt's side of the family; being a full time parent carer since gaining full custody of her.

That's very true, but an awful lot of life-changing damage can be caused while an investigation's carried out and the default of believing that a victim's telling the truth can cause issues to stick.


	20. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Maya talked about her new job, the difficulties of moving from CID to the newly created Cold Case Unit, the frustrations of coming into a case so many years too late. And the delight of solving even one old case. It would be just as easy to boot her computer, search the police databases, or spend her time at the library instead; scanning through the stacks, reading through the microfiche. Looking for past faces, or name, a long-closed case, something Maya remembered like the back of her hand.

"That's why Superintendent Webster is so interested. A case that may be solved as a police corruption case would be quite a scoop for the Unit."

"DCIs Gene Hunt and Sam Tyler are usually the ones investigating historical police corruption cases aren't they?" said DI Maya Roy to her new Detective Chief Inspector of the CCU.

Satisfied she was merely standing up for herself and unwilling to admit he was secretly quite proud of her for doing so, he merely mumbled and nodded. "Best get started on the crime scene detail then, sweets."

As a kid Sam wanted to be a police officer, and because his mum told him that by working hard he could make his dreams happen, he did. He never really thought about the why behind his desire to be a cop, though, and years went by before he tried to figure that part out. The law was important and it needed to be upheld, but it was just as important that the people be protected, and not just from criminal activity. He wanted to be useful, to help. Gene was the same too.

Take scribbling down notes on a notepad, for instance. On occasion, it was all right, but Gene much preferred the clean, crisp efficiency of communication via electronic or semi-electronic means. Even the mere act of typing up a memo to hand to someone else in his unit was infinitely preferable; for one thing, it meant far fewer questions about what this or that squiggle meant. Therefore, theoretically at least, with a well-written memo, very few questions were necessary. People just went about their work quietly and efficiently. Gene's and Sam's CID unit was like the proverbial well-oiled machine, and it suited him incredibly well.

Gene's ex Rachael came down from London "The nursery I used to teach at," Rachael Hunt recalled. "One of my toddlers was kidnapped and my ex and his former DI were sent out to investigate it. A messy business, stolen on his way to preschool. Mum negligently left him at the playground entrance, just a short walk into the nursery. He sadly never made it into the 2-3 year olds room though. He disappeared somewhere between that gate and the door 200 feet away."

"I was fired from nursery practitioner because Dorothy Martin filed a complaint that I was unfit to be around children for sleeping around with my childhood sweetheart turned copper." this was in 1997 when Gene first became a Detective Chief Inspector for Greater Manchester Police after being promoted by Harry Woolf at just nearly 32 years of age.

The question really was - how did the goddess from his childhood fantasies of The Sweeney, the woman who used to ruffle his hair and kiss his scraped knees and elbows after playground fights, maiden name Miss Foster. The Miss Foster. How did she end up married to Gene Hunt?

He was just finishing setting the table with mate Sam as the phenomenon known as Mrs. Hunt, the Guv's stepmother, came storming through the door for Sunday roast dinner.

"There's my Gene," Sam heard an abrasive voice call out and cringed. "What's that smell? Did you leave that roast cooking while I were at church you lazy sod? It will be tough by the time we eat."

"Mum, you've been going to that church since you were a little girl," Gene insisted.

Here he was in his early forties with a wisp of a girl for a missus; Rachael was just 30 this past spring and Sam Tyler was how old? Thirty three? Thirty four? Almost the same age. She was born in 1976 with an eleven year gap to Gene.

Gene's got a blue suit and tie, cropped hair, cool demeanour. He's lost weight.

Sam doesn't look at the old 1970s Greater Manchester Police unsolved crimes in any sense of the word. It's more difficult than he'd hoped to fall back into the motions - informational packets, PNC database, request forms, reply-all. He keeps getting stuck on things, re-reading paragraphs. Like he can't quite accept what's in front of him.

He nearly jumps when his phone rings. Internal caller ID - " , DCI." Sam swallows and picks it up.

"DCI Tyler." he answers.

"Hey, Sam dude. Assigning you to a case in Trafford - just forwarded the briefing."

Sam refreshes his e-mail. "Yeah, I've got it."

"Yes, boss. Trafford. I'm on it." grabbing his coat.

Liz drives them to the crime scene. Sam thinks her company would be comforting if it weren't for her uncompromising outgoingness or the fact that she's fritzing between Depeche Mode and Arctic Monkeys on the radio. When she starts humming along to 'I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor,' Sam winces and shifts in his seat.

"Watch the road," he mumbles.

"I am!" Liz exclaims, almost cheerfully indignant. "You know I led last Health and Safety seminar."

His mobile buzzes. Sam frowns, pulls it out, sees a text from someone named "Jasmine." He flips it open.

_Seriously. U ok?_

Sam glances at Liz, who has focused one-hundred percent of her attention on driving. He texts back carefully, _Who are you?_

He last visited Trafford on a dusty street corner in 1973 with a Ford Cortina Mk3 GXL belonging to Gene's dad idling loudly behind him. He gets a reply before the next traffic signal, Liz turns a corner and they reach the cordoned area.

Except then a digital camera snap-beeps inside the crime scene and Liz orders another SOCO to check for visible forensics. Sam's gripping a lukewarm paper cup in his hand and Chris is wearing a uniform with reflective tape sewn to it.

Sam recognizes Chris at first, under the constable hat.

You're..." Sam frowns. "You're a PC."

"Not much longer, 'opefully." Chris grins, and the sheer familiar honesty of it makes something in Sam hurt like glass. "Been studyin' for the exam like you told me - checked out books and whatnot, been readin' up on forensics and crime theory and psycho... psycho-analogous, all that."

"Psychoanalysis," Sam mumbles.

"Yeah, that'un!" Chris clutches the memo pad in his hand, jots something down in his odd, secretive way, like Sam won't notice he's doing it right in front of him. "Psycho... an..."

"I-" Sam closes his eyes, shakes his head. "Nothing. You'll make a great DC."

"Really?" Chris laughs. "Cheers, Boss. Reckon fourth try will be the charm."

He glances at the caller ID and winces, picks it up.

"Hi, Gene."

"Where are you?"

"Station." Sam grabs a wad of toilet paper, pats down his eyes one more time, then flushes it down. "Sorry, I'll be back at my desk now."

"Need you at the interdepartmental security meeting, five minutes."

Sam's hand fidgets on the stall latch at the sound of the Boss saying 'interdepartmental'. "I - yeah. Of course. Conference Room..."

"B."

"Right, B."

"It's on your schedule."

"I know."

"Clearly, you don't."

Gene finishes the call.

The meeting is plain, repetitive, heavy-handed. CCTV analysis, GPS interception, IP tracking. With modern convenience comes Big Brother, Sam thinks dully. He keeps a memo pad open, jots a note here and there to look busy.

Maya sits next to him, the other Crime Squad representative. She taps her finger against the table, equally bored and quietly annoyed. Sam can't help but notice they're the only DI and junior DCIs sitting in for their senior DCI.

DI Maya Roy narrows her eyes, flips her phone closed. "I'd have already rung five experts if I'd gotten this earlier, but because Gene insists he's 'busy'-"

"He's our other DCI, whether we like it - best get used to it." DI Maya Roy truthfully stated.

He shouldn't feel violated by Gene Hunt on a whole new existential level, but the only thing he can bring himself to peek at is the Man City emblem pinned to the corkboard. Otherwise, it's memos, bulletins, a few framed commendations. All white and grey and brown, all perfectly appropriate for the workspace.

Gene Hunt is dropping his keys on the counter and yanking open Sam's modern 2007 fridge with modern 2007 comfort food.

"You've let colleagues go lying to them. About my condition." Sam was looking down with his arms crossed over his chest.

Gene drums his fingers on the seatback; thinking back to when he saw DCI Sam Tyler nearly jumping off the roof from the main Stopford House. "I couldn't exactly tell them dearly demoted DCI Tyler thought he was in Sweeney-land half the time, can I?"

"Gene, tried to play games on my laptop twice. Chris loves all the tech." PCSO Liz Cartwright laughed as she asks DCI Sam Tyler to marry her by getting him down to his knees proposing.

Between pursuits in Gene's new 2007 Ford Mondeo Titanium X and the regular arrests; it had been an ordinary day in Greater Manchester Police CID at the main Stopford House premises.

He's, to put it mildly, surprised when he finds the spot as head of C Division still to be his. The faces under his charge haven't changed, although Maya's request for a transfer has been accepted during his absence to the Cold Case Unit.

Setting the steaming cup aside, she pulled out her laptop, hoping for a quiet half-hour to check her personal e-mails and maybe send a message to her teenage son in Canada. The mere thought of him made her smile fondly to herself, and for a moment she wished she had the time to visit him more often. But no sooner had Liz typed in her password than a big gloved hand slammed down the cover and uncerimoniously pushed the computer aside, demanding her full attention.

"Cartwright. It's your favourite scarf and I bet you've been racking your little brain for weeks wondering where it was. I know that because I'm still a good detective, thank you very much... and also because I've been keeping an eye on you, thinking you'd eventually end up doing something stupid and sentimental after the events of DCI Tyler's coma, and I was right."

"Oh, and hello to you too, Boss. Nice to see you again."

Leaning forward, he picked up a corner of her scarf and dabbed at her face gently, while she let her tears fall freely onto the table and into her now cold tea.

"I'll sign you out and take you home. But stop those tears first, or you'll end up ruining my new car's upholstery and then I'll give you a good reason to cry a river! Understood?"

"Yes, Boss?" Sam answered as he tossed his jacket onto the desk and made his way into the office with the Mondeo keys.

"My ex knew of the missing toddler, Superintendent Webster wants us to wrap up an old 1999 case on his disappearence from that Yellow Square nursery, my ex Rach once worked in." DCI Gene Hunt updated DCI Sam Tyler who is ordering a beefburger with horseradish, a potato waffle, a jacket potato, grated cheese and baked beans.

It had been the first thing Gene said to Sam since the bollocking he'd given him for getting the unmarked gold new shape Mondeo Titanium X scratched.

Liz Cartwright sat in a corner of the cafeteria, and ordered some tea to warm herself up after a long day spent on a different murder case that was particularly nasty.

There were more updates on the 1999 missing toddler case that Gene's ex Rachael had new information on, eight years later.

"You're only doing this to try winning back your ex's nursery nurse post." Liz remarked.

She was only mildly surprised by Gene's unannounced arrival. He ignored her sarky remark and plonked himself down in front of her. He held his I-Phone horizontally across his lap like a sword.

"You know love, it isn't very nice of you to assume Rachael deserved to lose her nursery practitioner post, over a mentally unstable then teenage Mum who claims she's been sleeping around Manchester."

His piercing blue eyes were locked onto hers and held a clear message of disapproval.

Detective Chief Inspector Gene Hunt was certainly not famous for giving up a case bone once he had it between his teeth, and honestly she'd never expect him to act in any other way, so she just sat there and waited for the inevitable lecture that was about to follow.

"With all that's been going on in Manchester in the past few months, I half-expected her to show up at my doorstep sooner rather than later."

"Alright then. You got your ex Rachael, so what?"

"Dorothy Martin neglects toddlers from allowing them to walk to nursery alone while she waits in the off license, kicks them out of the house to play in the street as long as she doesn't have to deal with their demands and violent video games in front of turkey dinosaurs; to name a few." he knew the style of child abuse from the Martins as he remembered the squalid, untidy council house; they lived in since the 1990s with fading plastic toys in the garden. Gene went undercover as a Green Taxis driver at the time, in his third year as Detective Chief Inspector using a red Ford Sierra GL saloon to find out why her then 2, 3, 4 and 7 year old led such chaotic lives.

"I know in my heart, this is a case of child neglect because she's still having babies after little Joshua went missing from the Yellow Square Nursery!" she sobbed into her cup of tea with wet tears.

"This isn't right, Cartwright, and you know you've been playing around with the chavs male partners. You could end up on the _Jeremy Kyle Show _over a kid that isn't yours." he muttered sternly.

One moment later, fresh tears came streaming down Liz's face as she held the Boss's leather driving gloved hand.

"You're a clever police woman with such a brilliant career and I don't want you wasting your potential if I can help it." said DCI Gene Hunt who took Annie Cartwright's daughter under his wing since she started in 1997 ten years ago. "You don't want to take on a baby or toddler knowing it's got violent bio parents in the bargain; the child has behavioural and learning disabilities with genetic alcohol traces." Gene always was like a younger father towards Liz Cartwright as there is sixteen years between them, twirling his bright blue gel pen as he spoke.

"I know, Boss; but I can't help thinking when looking back on your ex Rachael's statement; whether we could have prevented a child from going missing in nursery..." said the bright PCSO who went to University before working for Greater Manchester Police like her mother did.

"There wasn't proper security procedures for nurseries back in the 90s, so of course a toddler could run off from the premises easily without adults looking." stammered DCI Gene Hunt "You've just caught me at a bad time, so I apologise for being a diva towards you Cartwright."

"Believe me, I know the practitioners now at Yellow Square Nursery only hand over their charges to authorised people who are named on their system." she said distracted leaning forwards "That's OK, Boss." She noted down in a memo notebook the level of security Yellow Square Nursery had since 2000 "they've also installed child proofed doors, CCTV cameras, inform the police/Social Services if a child goes missing after a certain period and a code pad since the inadequate rating from the original 1999 Ofsted inspection." smiling coyly towards Gene.

"I'm not afraid to speak my mind and be a police diva, when it's needed." blurted the Boss, his heart sinking when he receives a radio call on Dorothy Martin neglecting another of her younger children.

"We'll interview Miss. Martin on her fitness to prioritise parenting and safeguarding under fives." said PCSO Liz Cartwright taking the Martin folder in her hand.

DCI Gene Hunt and PCSO Liz Cartwright pulled up outside the grubby council estate in a slightly rusty Ford Fiesta Mk3 XR2i. He pulled up on some yellow lines and switched off the engine.

"You can't park here, Gene." said Liz.

"We'll only be a minute or so, tops." smiled DCI Gene Hunt getting out of the car. "I may be another sexy police officer."

She stuck a Police sticker on the windscreen, while Gene went to the boot to get wheel clamping equipment out, taking a wheel clamp, screwdrivers attaching it to the vehicle along with a fake parking enforcement ticket from his pocket; putting it underneath the windscreen wiper.

"That should keep traffic wardens off guard and stop any light fingered residents from nicking my early 90s car, I'm still quite attached to my _Max Power_ magazine days."

PCSO Cartwright shook her head resignedly at the Guv being an early Nineties throwback complete with those awful chequered jeans, black pixie boots, a loud neon coloured collared shirt with a red and white baseball jacket that he last wore in 1991-1993.

"Christ! Hard to believe it's 14 or 15 years ago, I was tearing around this very estate in that Fiesta playing my electronic and dance music loudly chasing after boy racing scum. To my parents off duty; I become these creatures that suddenly don't get out of bed in the morning and answer back." laughed DCI Gene Hunt who felt nostalgic for his days as a very young Detective Inspector in the early Nineties when people easily mistook him for age 13 or 14 years of age.

"But it reminds me, and I think, 'Well maybe you was like that since 13 or 14'." said PCSO Liz Cartwright thinking about the Guv's usual attitude towards certain early morning call outs.

"My nephew, my brother Robert's son, is about to start at police cadets."

"So you're creating a family dynasty?" asked PCSO Liz Cartwright.

"I'm 42 now and they're all in their 20s. Young, enthusiastic and keen and ready."

"You were only a teenage uncle at the time, why did your elder brother Stuart make you look after his hordes of under 10s; while he ditched his kids for an acting career? I've seen his face in that series about scammers called _Hustle_. I've also read from various media that he married Bethany Goddard and has two very young toddler girls that are the spit of his new snobby wife." said Liz Cartwright who knew of the seven year gap between her boss's brother's wife and Rob.

"I'm very good at doing policing and I love looking out for kids. I've made it almost an art form."

"That's not the point Gene, you were still a child yourself in the 1980s!" snapped PCSO Liz Cartwright cross at the extremely lax babysitting arrangements of the time at a then teenage Gene Hunt looking after his younger nieces and nephews, despite the Guv explaining it was normal for the Eighties.

They headed across the rubbish strewn pavements towards the graffiti covered stairwells. Gene wrinkled his nose at the smell of urine and decay. Their footsteps echoed around the stairwell as they jogged up the concrete steps - the lift being out of order - to level 10.

"No wonder, she lets her toddlers run riot," commented Gene "This place is a dump."

"There's no place like home," PCSO Liz Cartwright shrugged her shoulders as she rung the doorbell of the council house. Having taken a good look round, they then made their way round the rest of the flat, but there was no sign of anything other than the usual chaos of a household with young children.

With a clatter of locks and chains the door creaked, open one eye peering round the side.

"Miss. Martin?"

"Who wants to know?" replied the now 26 year old woman.

"I'm DCI Hunt," explained Gene flashing his warrent card. "And this is PCSO Cartwright. We're here about your neglect towards under fives."

"I guess you'll want to come in," snapped Miss. Martin opening the door just enough for the two police officers to enter. "Wipe your feet or else!"

After settling down on a sofa that was probably around since the seventies and being handed tea in chipped, stained mugs, Gene was the first to speak.

"When did your Paige last went to the Yellow Square Nursery?"

"Friday, for that road safety thingy your blue dudes did."

"What time?" asked Gene.

"I don't know... 9 'o clock or something."

"You've been a great help with our enquiries -," as Liz Cartwright started to pause.

"Lizzie," warned Gene; the words somehow felt wrong in his mouth.

"Does she follow instructions from adults?" asked PCSO Cartwright about toddler development.

"I hope so," sneered Miss Martin "But I wouldn't put it past the little shit."

"You chased after your 2-3 year old daughter?" said DCI Gene Hunt shocked

"Since her daddy left, she's been nothing but trouble since he was on _Jeremy Kyle_ about DNA doubts over his younger babies." exclaimed Dorothy Martin sneered, lighting up a cigarette.

Gene appeared to object to the smoke "What's the younger child's name?"

"Tanya Colebert Mitchell." she replied. "Her mum lives on the other side of t' estate, eleven years younger than me since that bitch was one of these ex Social Services kids home jobbies."

"Thank you for your help," said Gene sharply standing up "We'll be in touch."

"Charlotte needs a lot of supervising. She constantly touches my stuff, plays with toddler toys or has tantrums and constantly does things that I have asked her not to do (such as feeding the police dogs jam or syrup and chasing the dogs around the station) and she hardly sleeps so I'm up a lot of the night with her. She cannot organise herself and it takes her hours to get ready to go anywhere because she is constantly distracted and goes off task. Charlotte has no concept of danger and will step out in the road a lot when cars are coming; I have to either hold her hand, treat her like a older baby or carry her." said DCI Gene Hunt who found the behaviour of little Paige hauntingly familiar only in this case it's considered ordinary toddler stuff, because it isn't a 14 year old doing this.

Gene led the way back to the Fiesta with PCSO Cartwright as he unlocked the car "I'll have a lift back to the station, DCI Gene Hunt please." across the courtyard area strewn with more litter.

It wasn't much help; but at least Dorothy Martin produced a lead but the Detective Chief Inspector knew the estate was laden with con artist types who were known to scam police officers with false statements, sell stolen goods and leave younger children on anyone that'll have them.

"She was born on 9th March 1993 and I was only 26 or 27 then; I still enforce a quiet time after lunch for Charlotte to do quiet activities or toys, mostly on her own, near me. Any noise and questions are answered with 'Mmmmmmm. Everyone's having a quiet time now.'" said DCI Gene Hunt thinking back to his very young fathering days with an autistic child in the early 90s and how he manages Charlotte Hunt without any support from her deadbeat mother, social workers or little respite care.

PCSO Liz Cartwright asked her boss "Did you even hit puberty before you fathered a child with Autism?" as Gene looked about 13, 14 or 15 despite being in his mid twenties in 1993.

"Acne spots and all, Cartwright. Years ago in '93. Anyway, we were fooling around at this house party of one of me mate's and we were in the lav and Elaine Dowling knelt down to blow me and, uh…" He paused and cleared his throat. "Well, she did blow me, but every now and then would stop and kiss me on my spots, and bite and lick them, left me with a unwanted child after nine months in her."

The mobile in the phone holder twangs itself to life, rattling against the plastic. Sam's always gone on about the latest tech - he's the oldest one in line getting hard for Apples or BlackBerries or what-have-you - but I'm fine with my indestructible little Nokia. Gets the job done. Has Snake.

Forensics have gone over the scene with a fine-tooth comb, and everything has been logged and noted.

"Right, we've got time to grab a chicken curry sandwich at the chinkie." said DCI Gene Hunt driving the Mk3 Fiesta XR2i to Belinda's Sandwiches for a quick lunch stop after collecting his 14 year old daughter Charlotte Hunt from the estate's childminder who also did care for teenagers and young adults with special needs.

Gene had a coronation chicken sandwich, since it was the only half decent flavour left in Belinda's Sandwiches; there were a lot of sugary energy drinks and junk snacks for sale, which Charlotte starts having meltdowns over in front of her Dad, overwhelmed by the choices.

"I want Quavers and coke!" screamed 14 year old Charlotte not letting go the red/white coloured can and yellow packet inscribed with _The light curly potato snack _in a green thought bubble with cheese flavour written on it after picking them off the shelves.

"I think it's Daddy you need to apologise to." said PCSO Liz Cartwright trying to calm Gene's autistic teenage daughter down before her tantrum became worse, when a random customer removes them from her hands muttering about her being too old for tantrums and what a out of control teenager.

"I want them!" she wailed thinking there was nothing for lunch when Gene places the order of sandwiches for three people with a small broken hearted 14 year old girl on his hip.

"Hey, it's okay. Charlie," his hand trailed upwards, brushing her hair off her face and then cupping her cheek, her eyes wide and wild before him, "it's okay, it's alright."

The murmuring of his voice, the warmth and the bubblegum breath helps.

"Shhh, it's alright. Charlotte. I've got yer, Charlotte. You're safe." He rocked her as though she was in his arms, her head tucked underneath his chin. "Hey, everything's alright with Daddy."

"Right, now we're all friends again, do you want to wear my police hat?" asked PCSO Cartwright letting Gene's daughter wear her police hat heading towards the hatchback car.

"Come here, darling, let's get you comfortable." said Gene as he did Charlotte's seat belt knowing no different, since she still didn't know how to undo seat belts in the car.

"Uh-oh!" Charlotte smiled as her dad Gene was wearing earbuds and carrying an iPod.

"You have to learn, baby." He sighed as he sat on the Fiesta's Recaro trimmed seat and he was in the playground, one Gene usually passed by as he drove to work every morning, only this time, the equipment was aged. The monkey bars appeared to have three coats of yellow paint, its latest coat peeling away. The seats of the swing set were worn and old, and the merry-go-round was rusted.

He turned and jogged down the pavement, passing by electronics stores, shiny McDonald's restaurants, and people moving out of his way as they chatted on their mobiles.

"Well, what a pleasant 'briefing' this is," Gene glanced around at the scene before him, clearly displeased air quoting. "I've got a mind to stick you all in Custody, just so I can get a bit of soddin' peace!"

A mass fight was on the brink of breaking out in Greater Manchester CID, paper missiles being hurled into the air and both Ray and Chris rolling up their sleeves in preparation.

"Cup of tea, Guv?" Shaz offered with a smile.

"I won't say no," Gene replied, "I haven't had a decent one all week. Five sugars, Shaz, ta muchly."

"It was a pile of steaming shite, Bols. There was no bleedin' big case. No small one, either. They'd rounded us up on false pretences." The disappointment on his face was clear, and she could only imagine at the mood he would have been in all week. "Six solid days of boring team-buildin' exercises. The Commissioner wants us to present a 'united front', apparently."

"Blinds?" DI Alex Drake asked as she walked into Gene's shiny modern built in office behind DCI Gene Hunt stood over the desk with his slim desktop computer in the corner standing tall "It's your call, Gene."

"Like that's gonna happen in the present climate. I tell yer, Bolly, there were many occasions when I felt like telling him exactly where he could shove his team-building. I've got a perfectly good team of my own, I don't need to be pally with a bunch of Brummies and Scousers."

Six weeks of team building exercises over at the Liverpool and Birmingham Police Constabulary had bored DCI Gene Hunt to death even though he was asked to visit them for the team building residential.

"I'm not ready to be Superintendent Gene Hunt, they'll have a long bloody wait."

"I've had a letter," she began, thinking misguidedly that it was easier to talk about, somehow realising that he might ask to see the physical evidence for himself, from Molly's father.

The image of Peter Drake had been an easy one to grab, given his unexpected appearance a few days previous.

"Look, Peter Drake is in the CCTV with our main suspect." She inhaled a deep breath, hoping that none of the other members of CID would choose to waltz in. "You're not going to let a couple of thugs intimidate you, are you?" DI Alex Drake asked her boss and secret love of her life.


	21. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

"Why are you so obsessed with bad-mouthing one of the few decent cops left in Greater Manchester Police?" He had turned to Superintendent McNally fully, almost shouting into his face. "I see myself in Chris, when I was that age. If I thought things were shit back then in the 1980s, they're even worse now." yelled DCI Gene Hunt annoyed with McNally in his office.

DI Alex Drake replied "What he sounds like is an honest copper who's had enough of all the bullshit that we've been wading through since Mac. And right now, we need a damn sight more of those."

By now she was sure that Chris would have got the call through from the retired bent coppers who were lying in wait. She just hoped that he would be okay; she'd promised Shaz to ring through via the Motorola police radio handsets for back up if things got out of hand.

She shook her head, feeling her heart cracking within her chest. "No. He was a Detective Inspector. But in 1982, he was a Police Constable."

"But -" he faltered, "I dunno if you've checked an old paper, but it was 1982."

She inhaled sharply, expelling the breath quicker than she should have done.

"I know. At least, here it is. But DI Martin Summers and PC Kevin Wells. One died, but he wasn't supposed to. I was...I was there when he did it. And he put the gun in my hand, Gene. It's in my drawer."

He was aware he was still crouching after a few moments, feeling more than his eight years older than DI Alex Drake and stupid for sitting and watching her like she was still the child; Gene rescued from the blue Ford Escort Mk3 Ghia car bomb when he was just nearly 16 or 17.

"Take it you don't fancy a fry-up, then?" asked DCI Gene Hunt eating his cooked breakfast.

"Ugh." From the corner of his eye he saw her bringing her hand to her mouth again, though she didn't retch. "I don't know how you can have one sober."

"You're a Southerner, Bols. It's not in yer blood." sniggered DCI Gene Hunt smiling at his DI.

As she leant against the desk, DCI Sam Tyler noticed the small evidence bag in the palm of her hand. She had been the one to notice the tag at the crime scene and had come back to it repeatedly since. DCI Gene Hunt had been too troubled by trying to figure out what breed of scum would injure a woman in her fifties and leave her in such a state afterwards. The bruises that circled her neck reminded him too much of his bastard of an uncle and the marks he had left on his stepmother.

He woke with a start, pain searing through his chest and his senses all over the shop. The clock at the bedside read 09:10 AM.

"Shit!"

He got himself ready and out the door in a record time, bombing the Ford Mondeo TX down strangely quiet streets, which were a blessing, ensuring that he arrived at the station just on twenty five past.

Once that was done and the Ford Mondeo Titanium X was secure, he got into CID at half nine.

And then there was Gene. He was as he often was in traffic piled streets, largely attentive aside from the odd word of banter to the two officers in the back. Even then his volume didn't reach even a gentle roar, the sound of the Mondeo's humming engine as he brought its speed a little faster outdoing him. His gloved hands gripped the steering wheel, his eyes fixed upon the road. Considerate, careful, almost contemplative in a way that she had only encountered a handful of times, though they had all happened fairly recently.

It was a dream come true - the Sweeney, the Persuaders, Starsky & Hutch, all those shows Gene had enjoyed watching in his life as a child of the Seventies. DCI Sam Tyler walks to Gene's beloved Ford Mondeo Titanium X waiting to help his old childhood friend and colleague with a significant case that is occurring on the Boss's birthday; something Gene's dreamed of since childhood even before becoming a police officer.

"How kind of you to tag in, Sammy dude. I wouldn't want to cause you any inconvenience," said DCI Gene Hunt kindly opening the front passenger door for his junior Detective Chief Inspector and clicks his seat belt into place.

Sam Tyler had to get on his feet again, to get back to work with fellow DCI Gene Hunt. To police work. In 2007 with modern methods. Not those of 1973. The building hadn't changed much on the outside; just the cars standing in the car park were, of course, modern. But when he entered the building, he immediately noticed the smell. Or the lack of smell. It didn't smell like cigarette smoke, and there was no faint smell of whisky hanging in the air. The air was clean and smelled of disinfectant, of cleaning products, of paper, of warm air coming from printers and copiers.

Sam saw that Gene's father had aged about 30 years but still looked rather young for his 60s.

Gene's 42nd birthday today came with a case that every police officer dreams of: Stopping more police corruption as other scandals were brought to the attention of the Cold Case Unit when Greater Manchester Police A Division and London Metropolitan Police officers of the 70s and 80s worked with criminals, made many false arrests, operated on violence and drunk on duty.

_To: CarlingR35891, LizzieC4681, TylerS487, SkeltonC1980,RoyM 777, DrakeA  
From: DCIGeneHunt . .uk  
cc: J_GreaterManchesterPolice .  
Subject: Cold Case Unit's r.e bent 1970s-80s Greater Manchester and London Metropolitan Police officers.  
10:34:04 AM Thursday 22 June 2007_

_Listen up guys, ladies and read my briefing e-mail very carefully!_

_There's been more old ex bent police officers than I can collate in the archives den downstairs; their lazy and rogue approach to policing is starting to bother my old mentor Detective Superintendent Harry Woolf, who remembers the backstabbing coppers when he was just a young DC. I came across my old uncle's violent methods when I was first promoted to DI in 1988._

_Yours Sincerely_

_DCI Eugene Hunt_

Gene finds himself confronting a formerly corrupted force, another legacy left over from the 1970s and 1980s when Sam Tyler calls over his and the Boss's status over the Motorola in car radio "8-7-0 to Alpha One. That ex Chief Inspector, Hunt lives in Winton Drive."

"Right. Shall we go and have words?" asked DCI Gene Hunt leaning on the car, "When a big old copper at the top of the rogue police ladder goes, the other smaller police goldfish get excited. They wanna climb that ladder to easy street." said Gene as Sam picked up his theory of the unofficial ranks that used to run in Greater Manchester Police during their formative years.

There came the familiar, hoarse tones of roughness of a certain voicebox which had been steeped in a lifetime's worth of hard drinking, bad diet and innumerable fags. "I've done my bit, yeah," Ex DCI Hunt smiled, showing badly tobacco-stained teeth. Where there still were teeth that was. He was missing quite a few as well; as a result had a slight whistling sound to his voice on the e or s.

The car had slight nagging rust spots that persisted in trying to grow in the wheel wells of older Hunt's beloved classic Cortina Mk3, no matter how often he just as persistently scrubbed them out with a bit of steel wool.

Gene spat, particularly disdainful of the fact this man couldn't even catch suspects without using the old fists first, think later policy and intimidating witnesses "I remember bringing you down, when my mentor Harry Woolf was a DCI, even though I was only barely out of my teens as a Detective Inspector!" he fumed over needing to settle an old bent copper battle circa 1988.

DCI Gerry Hunt had been a DCI years and years ago complete with bad greasy mouse-brown greying hair, his massive pot belly totally unrestrained by two-sizes-too-small flared trousers, cheap suspenders, cream loafers and a rumpled, badly stained button-down hideously 1970s patterned shirt completing the look, he failed quite badly in his attempted task.

"Oh, now the great div nephew baby spotted dick is a DCI!" referring to Gene's acne covered face quite offensively forgetting that he is now 42 years of age and that it isn't the late Eighties anymore. "You're forgetting that I was a copper, when you were still fighting acne!"

"Hark, the bent copper sings." Gene joked at the overweight elderly ex police officer in front of his eyes. "It will catch up and bite you finally, once we get you and your old cronies arrested, especially as you caused DCI Tyler's accident!"

XXXXXXX

DCIs Gene Hunt and Sam Tyler went to visit a former Woman's Detective Constable named WDC Mabel Stubbs from the staff archives of Greater Manchester Police on the computer systems.

"I'm sorry, officers, but you could never tell in those days, when I worked in the police service" she said, not unkindly. "What can I help you gentlemen with today?"

"We're sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Mabel Stubbs, but if we could just have a moment of your time." Sam was a winning combination of straightforward and deferential.

"Yes, love?" Gene showing his warrant card and took another sip of his tea, looking for all the world as though he'd never tasted a better cup in his life, writing down into a notebook what life was like for her as a police officer back in those male dominated days.

"Obviously, my old Guv, your uncle Hunt's got some priorities in the right place, him taking care of his mum and all. She's getting on in years and unfortunately, it doesn't seem everyone can be lucky enough like me in keeping it all together, do you know what I mean?" Mrs. Stubbs took another sip of tea and seemed to be contemplating the pattern on the cup for a few seconds before continuing. "Nasty man, like so many were back then, did what they wanted in CID and thought they could treat people like shit." Gene was writing what had happened to DCI Gerry Hunt since his retirement from the force, she asks if Gene's partner would like another cup of tea or coffee.

"No thanks, ma'am, though it was very nice," Sam smiled when Mrs. Stubbs offers tea or coffee.

"Ta, very muchly!" Gene flashed a grin, eyes sparkling, as he extended his cup forward and let Mrs. Stubbs pour out. "My uncle looked to muscle in on the gap left by the previous Guvs. Trouble is, their former big time DCI years puts them squarely on my radar."

"I feel much safer knowing modern police like you are on our streets, and can do your jobs without treating people like shit or being nasty men like so many of them were back in my day of the 70s when you Genie and Sammy were barely out of nappies." Mrs. Stubbs returned, rising to show the two out. "You search my Guv's house, see if there's anything from his police service."

"Trust me, my stepmum knew everything about everyone on our street. Mrs. Stubbs knows." Gene's faith in this was unshakable. "Still, couldn't hurt to ask. We'll stop in; it's on our way back. I could do with some lunch, too."

"Good to see you taking such joy in your work, Boss." Sam responded dryly.

"This is the chance every copper dreams about, I've been waiting for this since I was a kid." stated Gene who last saw his uncle as a child, his family lived near Mabel Stubbs during the 1970s when he was a skinny little boy with glass blue eyes. She has lived in the same street since he was born somewhere in 1965, for nigh on nearly four decades and knew Gene's family. She still has an original maroon 1978 or 1979 Ford Granada Mk1 Ghia automatic saloon with Ronal alloys since her days as a WDC.

Gene's happiest moment was the day he made DCI in 1997. The bracing swell of triumph in his heart throbbed there still, the pride in Harry's eyes as clear in his mind as any photograph.

Meanwhile he gathers intelligence on former DCI Gerry Hunt, now retired after 50 years of police service since 1957 as he was born in 1938 a year before World War II began their bombing outbreaks on Britain from the Germans.

_Name: Gerry Hunt_

_DOB: 5/7/1938_

_1954 - 1956 Two years National Service._

_1957 - 1967 Joins the Lancashire Constabulary as a Police Constable, stationed until transfer to Salford and Manchester in the city centre, rising through the ranks was a Detective Inspector prior to transfer into 'A' Division._

_1967 - 1982 Stationed in Salford and Manchester Police (from 1974 onwards Greater Manchester Police) promoted to Detective Chief Inspector in 1971 when DCI Stockdale was given a position of Detective Superintendent. He only suspiciously had one black mark against his record for two investigations, the cop killer Leslie Johns and the murder at a local underworld boxing club._

_1982 - 2007 Transferred to Metropolitan Police in London, but was suspended from the Police Force on grounds of retirement after corruption from his Greater Manchester Police days reared their ugly head four to forty five years later since the original cases._

The entire CID gathered around a computer and interactive whiteboard to view ex DCI Gerry Hunt's police records. "What have you got, Cybercrime?" he leans over their slim desktop computer monitors viewing his Cybercrime colleagues each find from the Greater Manchester Police archives.

"Trust the Gene Genie." Gene referred to his nickname he's had since ten years of age referring to a 1973 David Bowie song _The Jean Genie _"Get your popcorn and watch this old archive film we have of DCI Gerry Hunt beating witnesses up in A Division, fitting crimes up on innocent people." The Greater Manchester Police archive footage starts to play on the interactive whiteboard via a desktop computer and plug in projector.

The old camera moves out shakily to briefly show a few plain clothed CID police officers watching witnesses get beaten by their Guv, DCI Hunt but Gene's uncle, it is unclear as to which year of the Seventies or Eighties this was taken in. Gene sits forward, resting his chin on his cupped hands and sighs softly in disgust.

DCI Gene Hunt pauses the digitalised archive film shown in Microsoft Media Player via a SMART board and computer projector "See that? Go back."

The footage is "wound back" by clicking on Rewind and paused on an image of the four police officers involved accusing a blonde long haired female witness wearing a red jumper with a medallian necklace of being involved with a smash and grab at a jewellery shop.

DC Chris Skelton turns the sound on, which allows DCIs Gene Hunt and Sam Tyler to note down a transcript for the encounter. In using modern technology to find new evidence against the former DCI who put DCI Tyler in the nasty hit and run six months ago on Manchurian Way motorway.

To everyone's surprise, Sam is discharged from hospital six months after his admission. Well, Sam isn't surprised. To the contrary, he's been hoping for it. Gene and Liz are there when he limps out into the reception area, his bag hanging awkwardly off his good shoulder – but not for long, because Liz reaches out and takes it, not listening to Sam's protests.

FIN


	22. Chapter 16

It's an old blue Vauxhall Cavalier Mk2. Two steps to the right and I can see the number plate - the same number plate that's forever etched into the forefront of my mind.

**E599 SRJ**

I set off at a run.

"Don't you dare, Gene! Don't you dare drive away from me again!"

He stops with the key in the driver's side door, turns and finally he looks at me with something other than frightened resignation. It's devastation, complete and total, but somehow it's better and when I reach him I do the only thing I can think of doing. I snatch his head in my hands and kiss him, hard and for a moment seemingly unwelcome. Then his hands slide over my shoulders and his mouth opens under mine. My trampled heart is singing - something by David Bowie - and it's Gene who has to push me away, still holding on when he meets my blurring gaze.

"I didn't drive away from you that day. I stopped, called the station, called for an ambulance. Then I parked my car at the top of the slip road to block it to traffic and sat with you in a state of disbelief until the rest of the police arrived. It was an accident, Sam, I swear. It was always an accident." Gene broke his heart and gestured for Sam to jump into the blue saloon car. But Sam strongly suspects the Curly Wurly wrappers

The son's name of his much older brother was Ash Hunt. Ash gets arrested in Hyde on the other side of Central Manchester for pulling some short cons and Gene and Sam go to Hyde to bail him out. I'm sure there could be an interesting reason for Ash to change his last name to Morgan. Maybe to piss off Gene? It all started in maybe '78? When Robert Hunt was 18 years old and Gene was only 13 years old then. During DCI Tyler's road traffic collision, Gene was a police officer in a witness protection programme which physically relocates him to keep him safe until he can testify against former colleagues who used to be the take, when they worked in Greater Manchester Police in the 1970s. One of the yellowing files quoted A young _Colin Raimes was witnessed waving goodbye to the murderer at the end of the missing woman Susie Tripper's case._

Liz Cartwright and the rest of their colleagues were there to keep an eye on him, in case his enemies locate him. He remembers Gene mostly since he and Sam Tyler were children and after the case is over, makes a special request for his childhood friend.

* * *

**This is what DS Gene Hunt did during his best friend's DCI Sam Tyler's road traffic collision.**


End file.
